The Herald
by Spockchick
Summary: On her first mission command, an accident changes Uhura's life forever. She recovers, aided by Scotty, Spock, Christine and Charlene. While recuperating she hears and feels a strange presence. Is it a ghost? In her head? Or something far more sinister?
1. Prologue: Let that be your last battle

**Prologue: Let that be your last battlefield**

What occurs the day before your life as you know it ends? Who hears your final conversations; who accompanies you on your last meal; what are the duties of your working day? How are the hours, minutes and seconds of your penultimate day spent?

As it turns out, they are spent just like any other day.

"Well?" Charlene looked at Uhura over her mess room breakfast, eyebrows raised in query.

"What?"

"You're a space cadet this morning-what's going on?"

"I am a space cadet actually."

"Huh?"

Uhura's eyes darted to the side before speaking, "I'm commanding a shuttle mission, tomorrow. Just me and Kyle; we're testing the computing systems on the new _Magellan_."

"Wow, that's a nice little boat. I saw it was due for a systems test run tomorrow. I assumed it would be Kyle and Mister Spock."

"Mister Spock leaves early tomorrow, but he's on a two-month mission planet-side. He told me he could think of no one better equipped, so I'm in charge of a test run for the first time."

"That's fantastic girl! I bet you can't wait, it's about time you got to command a mission. The First Officer probably realised we were almost at the end of our five years and you still hadn't got to command something. I heard he was going away on some science mission. Seems weird, doesn't it? Who'll be our First Officer?

Uhura shrugged, "An Ilyrian woman, she used to be Pike's First Officer. I've not met her."

"What's her name?"

"I don't know, 'till now the Captain's only called her _Number One._"

"Huh, must be top secret. Don't you think it's strange that the Captain is not giving one of the bridge staff a temporary field promotion?"

Uhura was familiar with Charlene's question; it was one she had asked Captain Kirk herself. "He wants us to experience working with a different dynamic. He knows we might not all be together on the next mission."

Sensing her friend's dejection, Charlene reached across the table and squeezed Uhura's hand. They cleared their trays away and made to head off in separate directions, Uhura to the Bridge and Charlene to Engineering. Just before they parted, Charlene asked, "Want to come to the Rec Room tonight, play some cards? Fleece a few rookies for replicator credits?"

"Very tempting, but I can't, I have a Lyre lesson with Mister Spock, last one for two months. Can we meet up to play tomorrow, after my mission?"

"Sure, sounds great, and good luck if I don't see you."

"Thanks." Uhura beamed a grin that could be seen from Terra.

Settling in at her station, Uhura placed her earpiece into her ear and began her final day as Chief Communications Officer on board the _Enterprise_. It was uneventful; there was a report of a minor ion storm far in the distance and embarkation details for the peculiarly-named _Number One_. Some last-minute communications regarding Mister Spock's temporary assignment on the Science Mission made way for a quiet couple of hours when Captain Kirk kindly allowed her to go over the specs for the _Magellan's _computing systems. She had, of course, read them many times over but didn't want to have to resort to a manual in the event of a crisis.

After a pleasant dinner with Kyle and Scotty talking about the new shuttle design she went to Mister Spock's quarters for her last lyre lesson. Once the lesson was over they talked longer than they had ever done; about each other's missions, the ending in a few months of their five-year stint on the _Enterprise_, future plans, and of course, their all-consuming passion: Starfleet. At the end of the evening, the Commander escorted her back to her quarters for the first and only time. As her door swished open, she faced him, arranged in his customary parade rest, "Well, good luck on _your _mission, sir. I'll see you in two months time, and thank you again for allowing me this opportunity to command my own."

"Lieutenant, you will perform admirably as always, but I return your initial sentiment; good luck. I regret I will not be on the Bridge to oversee your first mission command as I had hoped."

"That's all right, sir-your voice in my earpiece will be up here." She tapped her skull with two fingers.

"An illogical statement, but I believe I understand." With a brief bow of his head, he took his leave and Uhura walked into her quarters, suddenly conscious of a clench in her gut. She dismissed it as trepidation about the future. The Commander was her safe pair of hands, the only person to know more than she did about the ship's computing systems. Not only was she commanding her first mission in the morning, but for the first time in the _Enterprise's_ five-year mission, Uhura was solely in charge of its computing infrastructure. She felt scared, but she hoped it would be a positive, motivating anxiety.

– End prologue –


	2. Part 1:Till her Blood Was Frozen Slowly

**Part One: Till her Blood Was Frozen Slowly**

It was a smooth launch; Kyle was an amiable companion and his calm, measured English tones soothed Uhura's initial nerves. An experienced shuttle pilot, he had no concerns about this brief four-hour flight being anything but routine. They kept in contact with the _Enterprise_ regularly and slipped into a comforting silence of work. Uhura began a routine benchmarking program on the _Magellan's _onboard computer and queued up a bug-tracker to run as soon as the benchmarking was done. Kyle ran through various simulations designed to test the propulsion systems, navigational computer, and life support, all the while whistling cheerily. Eventually, after the first hour, the systems could be left alone and they fell into easy conversation.

"So what happens to you at the end of the five-year mission, Kyle?"

"I think I'll sign up for another one, I quite like it out here. This is my second tour of duty, so I think I could do one more. You?

"I haven't really decided. Starfleet is my life, I'm not sure I have any land-legs. I'd like to try for a command post eventually."

"No partner, children on the horizon?"

She laughed, "Oh no, no that's not really for me. I can't see myself planet-side with a brood, not at all."

"That's a shame, I think you'd make a great mum-you could teach the kids singing, and poker."

"Thanks Kyle—do you have someone special?"

Kyle's fair, red hair came with a complexion that was prone to flushing, which he momentarily did spectacularly, "Yes, there's someone, I hope they'll still be on the _Enterprise_ on her next mission."

"You kept that quiet, Kyle!"

"And I still want to, if you don't mind," but he was smiling and didn't seem annoyed.

Almost ninety minutes in to the flight, Kyle reported an ion storm coming in on the shuttle's scanner. "It looks like that storm from yesterday closing in."

"Distance and trajectory?"

"About 2200 kilometres, bearing 107 mark four."

"Speed?"

"Variable, but no faster than 1000 kilometres per hour."

"There's no point getting caught up in this, our flight being three hours rather than four won't make much difference. Let's head back to the _Enterprise._"

"Aye, Lieutenant."

Communications from the _Enterprise_ crackled into life, "_Magellan_, this is Number One here. Return to the _Enterprise_ at once, we have detected an anomaly."

"Turning about, one hundred eighty degrees, aye." Uhura had never heard Number One's voice over the comm before and the slight distortion had the effect of making it sound familiar. She had no time to consider this though, as the prow of the shuttle gave an ominous creak, bellowing like a wounded walrus.

"We're being pulled," shouted Kyle, "as if by a tractor-beam. I can't pull the shuttle away, engines are dead! It looks like a massive electrical pulse."

Looking to Kyle Uhura could see underlying strain in his usually composed features. Not wishing to alarm him further she hit the comm to the _Enterprise _and stated calmly, but firmly; "Mayday, Mayday, we are drifting, engines cut by electrical pulse."

Number One's voice came through the comm, "Acknowledged, we're coming to get you," and the shuttle was once more quiet. Then, everything went catastrophically wrong.

Uhura heard it before she saw it, the sharp, scratchy click of a pebble being thrown at glass.

_click_

Looking around the shuttle she saw nothing to account for it. While issuing an order for herself and Kyle to get into survival suits, she heard the sound again and felt an imperceptible drop in temperature. Her skin crawled and foreboding surrounded her like a body-bag.

_click_

As Kyle rose from his seat, a quiet high-pitched squeak accompanied the odd noise, and Uhura was drawn to the area behind his shoulder.

_click_

Short cracks were appearing in the view screen. She observed, powerless, as they rapidly joined to form a rough rhomboid which detached itself from the screen completely to make a hole. Kyle's body spun so quickly that his face only registered fleeting surprise as his arm was pulled out of the craft, his head smashing on the thick transparent aluminium. She watched aghast as bright arterial blood effloresced into the void, disappearing immediately into the depressurised vacuum. The whole scene had taken only seconds and, other than the sickening thud of Kyle's head connecting with the view screen, in near silence.

At once, it was as if the captured shuttle had awoken; sentient, screaming and snapping at its bonds, from a deathly nightmare. The craft howled and screeched enough to deafen, jerking and rolling against the pull of the unknown force. All Uhura's emergency training kicked in. The civilian reflex would be to try to pull Kyle down, but she knew if she did they were both dead. She lurched to the stern and yanked open the survival suit storage panel and accompanied by the loud, vulgar suck of air escaping, pulled a suit on over her uniform then unclipped a set of breathing gear for Kyle; there was no prospect of getting him into a suit now. She fought towards him, buffeted by currents of departing air, certain that the shock of having one limb at a temperature of -270°C, the bleeding, and the head injury probably meant he was no longer alive. Managing barely to fit the breathing apparatus to his bone-white face in the gale, she shouted a voice command to the shuttle computer, hardly able to hear herself above the maelstrom: "Computer, how many life forms aboard this craft?"

"One human female."

Uhura felt sick to the stomach. Her first command mission had ended in the death of a good man, and she would not be far behind. The noise in the craft was now unbearable, a cacophony of the grating, squealing hull, the shrieking atmosphere, and the red-alert siren.

"_Magellan, Enterprise _here," Number One's smooth tones interrupted the chaos, cutting into the comm unit inside her suit. "Nyota, we _will _come and get you." The unprecedented use of her first name, coupled with the compassionate tone of the First Officer's voice meant only one thing;

_We will ensure your body is recovered and given a proper Starfleet funeral with appropriate honours._

The shuttle screamed its last, and Uhura was thrown up to the ceiling at force, crashing back down onto the edge of the navigator's chair, only to bounce immediately off it again. Bulkheads and walls advanced as oxygen rushed out into space. She lay twisted, broken, staring at the ceiling … or was it the deck? The survival suit helmet impeded her view, and she couldn't move her head anyway. Praying she would die before the shuttle shrank to the size of a coffin, she tried not to think of what would become of Kyle's body when that happened.

_I'm sorry Mister Spock. I'm glad you will not be recovering our bodies._

Blood bloomed in Uhura's chest cavity; her lung, pierced by a rib splintered in the impact, flooded.

– End part 1 –


	3. Part 2: And her eyes were darkened

**Part Two: And her eyes were darkened wholly**

There was no feeling, no impression of corporeal presence at all. Hearing was her only sense, and the first thing she heard was the soft, slow beep of a bio monitor. She initially assumed it was her own heartbeat, but it was far, far too slow.

"I can't agree to this, Spock, it's downright cruelty. All her systems are on bypass as it is-all that's alive is her mind, and I can't even be one hundred percent positive about that."

Commander Spock was back? Because there were no senior computing staff on the _Enterprise? _ A chilling thought occurred: perhaps she had been in sickbay for over two months.

The Vulcan's baritone cut in, "Scans would indicate minimal damage Doctor."

"This is being fuelled by your own damned guilt that a mission you authorised went wrong. How many times do I have to tell you? It was nobody's fault!"

"I assure you Doctor, Vulcans do not feel guilt."

"Hah! What a load of hogwash. This procedure is experimental-you know darned well it hasn't been tried on someone her age, just geriatrics who had nothing to lose if it went wrong. I can't believe Starfleet finally authorised your fool request. Actually I _can_ believe it, she'll be another one of their _experiments. _I'm certain she wouldn't want to live like this. It's barbaric, and I'm going to see that it's put to an end. If she can't consent to this quackery, I won't do it."

With horror, Uhura realised they were talking about switching off her life support. She began to panic-why couldn't she feel? She tried to communicate, move, speak, anything. The bleep of the bio-monitor sped up as she became increasingly frantic.

"Doctor, I believe she can hear us."

_Yes! Yes! I can hear you!_

"Good God, her brain waves are going crazy!"

"If she is mentally aware now, I could initiate a mind-meld to gain consent for the procedure."

"This is your last chance, Spock, I'm warning you."

"Lieutenant, if you can hear me, please try to calm yourself."

Relief flooded through her, she had a chance.

McCoy sighed, "The brain patterns are settling down. It seems she is aware of us. Go ahead Spock, but this is it - no more."

Spock spoke with the slow deliberation of deep concentration; "My mind to your mind, we are one...we are one... Show us."

Uhura imagined his fingers on her face, but she felt nothing.

* * *

She was on a river, drifting in silence in a rowing boat on a bright day. The water sparkled, and lace curtains of emerald willows cascaded along the banks. Looking to her lap she saw that white linen enrobed her loosely, flowing to either side, like a shroud.

"Nyota?"

She lifted her head to see Spock sitting in the prow, also dressed in white, wearing an elegant but archaic linen suit.

"You have never used my first name."

"You are near to death; I thought it kinder."

"Thank you for being honest with me. May I call you Spock?"

"You may."

He had grown sideburns that came almost to his chin and served to further elongate his angular face, but otherwise he was the same. A wall of safety surrounded her despite the funereal garment draping her body.

"You are gravely injured, Nyota; the doctor is keeping you alive on life support but your body cannot repair itself unaided. I have brought you here to ask your consent to be the subject of an experimental genetic engineering procedure."

"If I decline?"

"You will die, but I will remain with you here until it is over."

"If I accept?"

"You will either be repaired, and hopefully live a long and fulfilling life…"

"Or?"

"There is a possibility you will survive quite well for a short time, then experience extreme cell replication, and die. The procedure has only been used on geriatric patients whose already slow rate of cell growth compensates for possible side-effects. Someone of your youth is an unknown quantity."

"If that happens, will I be in pain?"

"Negative, Doctor McCoy will ensure you are comfortable."

"Will it be quick?"

"Affirmative, and I will visit you, just as I am now."

"Tell me the probability Spock."

"There is a 40.764 percent chance of success. You may have time to decide; the doctor is able to keep you suspended in this manner for many months."

"How long have I been in Sickbay on this bio bed?"

"Three months, two days, four hours and six minutes."

"I don't want time to decide-I can only change my mind. I want to be given a chance to survive. Even if it goes wrong I'll at least see you all again, for a short time. I consent."

"Very well."

"Spock?"

He merely gazed in enquiry with his head tipped a few degrees to the side.

"I'm frightened."

Long arms stretched out towards her and he took her hands in his. "I think it would be prudent for me to create a shallow telepathic bond with you. This would enable me to monitor your condition while you are treated. I am the one who pressed for this treatment; therefore, I believe I have some responsibility towards ascertaining your well-being. I will not be able to sense thoughts, only strong physiological states such as fear, or pain."

Glad she could feel the warmth of his hands in this unreality, she nodded her assent, not wishing to relinquish the protective wall surrounding her. "How long will my treatment take?"

"Approximately three months, but you will be suspended as you are now so that those months will feel as mere hours."

"Will it hurt?"

"Negative, it is more akin to a state of extreme fatigue as the tissue repairs itself. Your subconscious mind will effectively be sleeping."

"I don't want to leave here."

"You must. This boat bears you into death … I would not wish it." One large hand left hers, the fingers finding points at the side of her face. As tears coursed down her cheeks, he instructed, "Please repeat after me … _my mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts…"_

– End part 2 –


	4. Part 3: A gleaming shape she floated

**Part Three: A gleaming shape she floated by**

Some sensation has returned to her skin, but any sense of her body is still lost. They are drowning her, and she is unable to move or struggle. Tepid liquid surrounds her; hands press down on her shins, shoulders and forehead. The bio-monitor speeds up so that individual beeps are barely discernible and they blur into one shrill squeal. Water pours into her lungs, burning and scouring its way down. She has not the muscle awareness to close her jaw, and her cough reflex is inoperative, her diaphragm as paralysed as the rest of her impotent flesh. Something is wrong, she is dying; the treatment hasn't worked. Her ears are roaring now beneath the water. Voices snapping unfamiliar medical instructions soon sound as though they are down a deep well. In her immersion she is exiled, marooned, dying, being born, a funeral, a baptism.

A thrashing, raging desperate struggle that can only be within her mind transforms to total peace, and she knows for certain she is once more at the edge of death. Resuscitated sailors talk of the calm before drowning. The brain, starved of oxygen, cares not that you are dying, and serenity descends. She floats beneath the water, fingers of weed and algae stroke her legs and gently coax her down to the river's cool, stony bed.

_For ere she reach'd upon the tide_

At once, she rushes to the surface; her upper body chills above the water, swaddled in the dead-weight of the sodden shroud. Desperately, she manages to claw her way back to the boat; it is unstable as she heaves herself up into it, water slopping inside, threatening to capsize. Flopping onto the planking, gasping like a fish on land, dry sobs wrack her body; her chest is scalded from the inside. Frantically scrabbling for one of the oars, not wishing the boat to drift off, she senses that she is not moving. Twisting her head upstream she sees a strong chain leading from the prow-eye to the bank, where it loops around a high stout stake, anchoring her to land. She tries to be still and rest, but the linen shroud is desiccating like an old-fashioned plaster-cast in the sun, and as she is alone in this strange scene, she begins to unwind the cloth. Beneath, she is surprised to find a white cotton shift, sleeveless and pin tucked; a garment from another era. Uhura wonders how her subconscious conjured it up. Wringing the shroud out over the side of the boat she uses it to mop up river water in the absence of a bailer, and throws it toward the stern.

Finally, lying spent, terrified and exhausted in the bottom of the boat she looks to the sun, the thin cotton of her shift drying.

_Your spirit is the calmed sea_

_Laid by the tumult of the fight_

Eyes closed, she basks in warmth listening to the comforting slop of water on the side of the boat, and the spare music of bird song. Light penetrates her closed eyelids and she imagines she is drifting on the Athi, hearing baboons in the distance while her sister counts yellow-billed stork. She falls into a light sleep.

Stretching into slow wakefulness she turns towards the bank. Spock lounges there, dressed in his linen suit, knees pulled up, his forearms resting on them.

"Good day, Nyota."

Smiling, she asks, "What's the time?"

"It is day 28 of your treatment, the time is of no consequence."

"I don't understand, it's only been an hour or two."

"As I explained, your body is experiencing extreme fatigue. For you, time is compressed."

Sitting up and smoothing down her shift, she apologises for her state of undress.

"That also is of no consequence."

"Is this your scenario, Spock?" she gestures to the landscape. "I would think that the deserts of Vulcan would be more familiar to you."

"Indeed; however, this is not my landscape. I believe it belongs to another … perhaps it is a remnant from an accidental telepathic contact."

She is not convinced by his explanation but declines to press further. "How am I doing?"

"Treatment is progressing as expected."

Nodding, she reaches for the now dry shroud, rolls it up and places it where her head rested previously, and gives an involuntary yawn. "Sorry."

"You are still tired. Sleep."

"Will I see you in another month?"

"Unlikely, unless you are in distress." He rises elegantly and walks away. She calls him back with his name.

"I was in distress earlier, I was drowning. You didn't come."

"We require you to fight unaided. Your recovery was assisted by your struggle."

She is once more dozing on a riverboat on the Athi, her little sister sits cross-legged on the deck, thin legs folded beneath the hem of a green and white cotton batik dress. "Enny, Enny, look, stork! Stork!"

"Yes Ayan, you don't have to tell me every time. If you shout, a crocodile will come and get you. Your legs are so skinny it will think you are a stork."

"But a hippo will kill the crocodile!"

Nyota leaps up and grabs the child around the waist, making her hand into a snapping crocodile, and tormenting her mercilessly. Ayan screams with giggles and yells for her mama. "Enny is attacking me!" Nyota closes her eyes and laughs so she can hardly draw breath until rasping, wracking gasps escape her body. She opens her eyes for a split second to find the wriggling body in her arms is no longer Ayan, but a thin, violet-skinned being. Then she is alone, lying on the riverbank, then nothing.

– End part 3 –


	5. Part 4: Shadows of the world appear

Author's Note: Firstly I want to say thank you very much to all my lovely reviewers, and those who have favoured this story. I want to say a big thanks to those I can't reply to, such as BigFan, Oneblackvoice71 and Angym. I hope this is not the part where my readers and I part company. I wish to explain that this story is a mystery seen from Uhura's point of view and I want the readers to remain un-spoilered. Hence I have not signposted anything. In future chapters there will be some stuff that I will warn about, but I don't want to signal too much. Thank you all.

**Part Four: Shadows of the world appear**

"Aspiration complete. You can go for a break, I'll handle this." Christine Chapel's familiar tones were in her ear and a warm hand she could finally feel stroked her face gently. She was on her side, the nurse saying, "Come on Uhura, breathe, open your eyes, you're back with us now." The tender hand moved to her arm and administered a soft, hissing hypo. Uhura's eyes flew open, she gasped a brutal, shocked breath and projectile vomited about a half-litre of clear fluid onto the floor, and the nurse, who was mercifully protected by a blue plastic apron. Christine continued to stroke the Lieutenant's arm, unfazed, murmuring encouragement as she drew rough, burning breaths, eyes stinging, until her heaving chest finally subsided to an almost normal level.

At last able to focus, Uhura allowed herself to roll over, mindful of her flaming lungs and rubber limbs. The nurse took her hand. "Don't speak, your throat will feel like sand. I'll get an electrolyte drink for you."

Staring at the ceiling, Uhura nodded, her mind was scrambled-it was difficult to make sense of her surroundings-she couldn't get her bearings in sickbay, couldn't even make out which of the beds she was in. Resigned, she closed her eyes and listened to the calming rustle of Nurse Chapel moving about.

"Do you feel up to sitting?" Christine's torso appeared at the bedside. Uhura managed a nod and the nurse pressed a panel above the bed, raising the back up and manoeuvring Uhura to a sitting position. Still disorientated, she allowed herself to accept at her mouth an enclosed plastic cup with attached straw. The nurse gently placed the straw between her patient's lips and commanded her to drink. After a few minutes, and quite a few sips, Uhura spoke; it was rough and croaky, but intelligible, "Can you sit Christine, so I can see you? My neck is so stiff."

"Of course," the nurse went to fetch a chair and Uhura heard the scrape of it beside her bed within a few seconds. Uhura turned to her friend and got the shock of her life.

"Christine—your hair is dark! You look like Number One's twin!" she croaked.

"Who is Number One, Lieutenant?"

"Number One? Why, she was Commander Spock's substitute when he was on the science mission. You know that! Why are you calling me 'Lieutenant,' Christine?" A cold fist of unease gripped Uhura's heart. Something was not right. She had only felt this apprehension once before, over three years previously.

Christine looked stricken. "I'm sorry, I should have got Mister Spock before I woke you. The Doctor is on a mission… he said it would be best to bring you round… I'll get Mister Spock now; he'll explain everything, I'm so sorry, It'll be all right, I promise, I'm so sorry." Tears shone in the nurse's eyes, "Nothing like this has ever happened here."

Uhura realised she was limited in her movements. She guessed heaving her body off the bio bed would only result in her falling to the floor like a sandbag and risking serious injury. She was in aspic. Once more she closed her eyes, forcing back terror while plucking the edge of her sickbay gown with a clawed hand. A few minutes later the scrape of the chair alerted her to another visitor. Steeling herself, she waited for them to speak.

"Lieutenant, it is I, Spock."

Gingerly rotating her head towards him she prised open her eyes, and was greeted by the most extraordinary sight. Commander Spock sat at her bedside, fingers steepled before him, wearing what looked like a modified nineteenth century British Naval Officer's uniform. His elbows rested on slim white breeches that met black knee-length boots. A short, navy tail-coat with a double row of sliver buttons and braid at the edges was open to reveal a white, high-necked shirt, fastened at the top with a stock. Silver epaulettes adorned with two small stars served to widen his slim frame.

"This is not the USS Enterprise, NCC-1701, is it?" An icy rivulet of fear trickled down her spine.

Spock leaned forward further on his elbows, "Not in a manner of speaking, no. This is what we call _Enterprise Alpha_; her registry is NCC-1860-A. I did not think it wise to inform you of this while you were injured."

"How did I get here?"

"Your cutter was caught in an ion storm that resulted from a wormhole. The light craft was pulled in and you arrived here. Evidence suggests you have come from a parallel universe, approximately twenty years behind ours in technological advancement. I regret your predicament; adjustment will be difficult."

"Please, Mister Spock, can't you send me back?"

"Negative; the wormhole closed a few minutes after your arrival. Even if it were to reopen, the risk of death is too high to allow your return. The wormhole exerted considerable force on your cutter. You could not have foreseen or prevented it."

"Poor Kyle, he was an excellent Lieutenant, and a good man." Nyota's grief spilled over and Spock handed her a beautifully pressed white handkerchief. He stared ahead while she composed herself. After wiping her eyes she unfolded the handkerchief; it was embroidered on the edge with Vulcan script. "What does this say, Commander?"

"It is my clan name; my mother sent these. They are a trifle feminine for my taste; please keep it."

"Thank you, sir. A cutter? You mean my shuttle?"

"A cutter is our name for a small craft used for ferrying crew and supplies. There may be some differences in terminology in our use of language."

"So Starfleet exists here too? I am not a prisoner?"

"Starfleet does exist, and you are by no means a prisoner. In fact I would class you as a refugee, as you are unable to return to your point of origin."

More tears fell. Nyota would never see her friends again; a thought occurred to her and the hairs on her neck stood up. "So there is another of me on this ship?"

"Negative. She is…" Spock paused, his eyes wandering to the ceiling, "…deceased."

"Oh…I heard you and the doctor talking. Did she die on a mission?"

"The circumstances are immaterial. This subject is closed. You must concentrate on your rehabilitation, and as a member of Starfleet, albeit from another universe, we must find gainful employment for you on the ship. We were able to salvage data from your damaged craft, I assume from the work you were carrying out that you were in charge of computer systems on your _Enterprise_?"

"I was actually chief of communications, but I was second in command to Mister Spock as regards the ship's computer systems."

"And now he be believes you dead. Most unfortunate."

"Everyone will think I'm dead, but I'm alive and poor Kyle is truly dead, and he has an unknown partner grieving on the _Enterprise_." She struggled to sit up further, a shocking realisation hitting her. If she had been missing for six months, the _Enterprise _will have ended her five-year mission by now.

"Please, do not exert yourself Lieutenant." Spock placed the flat of his hand gently on her shoulder. "I must leave. My watch on the bridge begins in ten point six minutes. I will report back in two weeks to check your progress." He stood, facing the bed, placed one forearm across his abdomen, the other behind his back, and, extending his right leg forward a fraction, gave an antique bow.

As his footsteps retreated, all Uhura could think about was the end of the mission. What a horrible send-off for the crew, with two crewmen missing presumed dead. Mawkish thoughts drifted through her head: of her and Kyle's funerals, Kenyan and English flags draped over their empty coffins; the card game with Charlene, never played; her possessions, untouched by her forever; holos of her family sitting unseen. She would never see her dead mother's laughing face again. Had Christine and Charlene packed her belongings and sent them to Ayan? A painful image appeared of her baby sister, now an adult, opening the door to two Starfleet Officers, one always of a sex and species compatible with the receiver of bad tidings. Ayan being asked to sit, predicting the message. "We regret to inform you that…is there someone you can call…she was a fine officer." And all just when Ayan thought her big sister was coming home after five long years. It was too much; she was the "undead," and she began to sob. At once, long strong arms enveloped her, the nurse had moved back to her bed.

"We'll help you Uhura, we'll help you to get better."

– End part 4 –


	6. Part 5: I dance like I've got diamonds

**Part Five: I dance like I've got diamonds at the meeting of my thighs**

The following two weeks passed in a drug-induced fog; Uhura's withered limbs were manipulated into a delicate suit of electro-mesh; it glowed like fine silver foliage; pale against her skin, while white electrodes at vital junctions shimmered like diamonds. Gentle shocks encouraged her atrophied muscles to do what she could not, to move. She spoke only to Nurse Chapel and Doctor M'Benga; it seemed she slept while McCoy was on shift, although a part of her wondered if this was deliberate avoidance as she remembered his conversation with Spock before her treatment began. Mister Spock drifted in and out, but only checked with her once more. Perhaps he was working on a project, or visiting someone else.

It seemed odd to be calling these people by familiar names. They were not the people she knew, although they looked and acted very like them. This must be how sufferers of Capgras Delusion felt-what a terrifying world they must inhabit. Christine was different in some ways, still full of compassion but more confident. Her hair was dark brown, worn in a no-nonsense French roll that was far more elegant than her other manifestation's blonde nest. With her ramrod straight posture, she commanded the medical bay with a floating calm, seeming to glide, not walk. M'Benga was softly spoken and kind. He frequently called her by her first name and she conjectured that this was because he had not known the other Uhura very well.

One day, when she was almost compos mentis, she asked him, "What's your first name, Doctor? The _Enterprise _M'Benga was called Geoffrey."

The doctor guffawed. "Your M'Benga got the short straw! Geoffrey? No? That's a horrible name!" My first name is Seacole, but everyone calls me Cole for short. My mother named me for Mary Seacole. I think she hoped some nominative determinism would follow." He smiled broadly, "My mother hated Florence Nightingale - she didn't even believe in bacteria!"

It was near the end of her two weeks in "The Sick Deck," as they called it on _Enterprise Alpha, _andChristine approached her bed with purpose. "Right, here is the bad news, I have to take out your catheter. The good news is you get to take off the electro-mesh, have a real shower with water, and you can pee in it all you want to. Oh, and I'll get you a mirror and a makeup bag." Sometime later Uhura found herself being helped in the shower by Christine and she discovered there were some side-effects to her treatment other than her wobbling limbs. Christine soaped up a rough, exfoliating mitt and rubbed it firmly over Uhura's back, shoulders and upper arms. Up until this moment sick-bay gowns or mesh had covered her body and she had not seen her own skin for months. Looking round at her shoulder, she saw it was covered in fine, black hair. "Gods! What in Orion is that?"

"Lanugo; baby-hair," answered Christine briskly. "What you went through, although essentially a cell-regeneration, was like being reborn. Some babies are born with it; it won't re-grow." With that, Christine began to vigorously rub the tops of Uhura's ears, then her forehead. Uhura batted the Nurse's arm away.

"Wait, stop, it's on my _ears_? And my _face_?"

"Not any more—well-just a bit between your eyebrows now."

Uhura put her face in her hands, "You mean the whole time I've been talking to you, Doctor M'Benga and _Commander Spock_, I have had a hairy face and ears? Like the Wolf Woman?"

"We are all aware of the side effects. There was nothing that could be done about it until your skin was firmer. How would you have felt if you knew?"

Uhura groaned, "One hundred times worse."

"See? Now let me at that last bit."

Back on the bio-bed, sitting this time, Uhura looked at her new reflection in the mirror while she tidied the last few stray eyebrow hairs with tweezers. She barely recognised herself. Without makeup or jewelery, her skin looked dry and dusty. Christine had assured her that with time, her skin would regain its healthy look, but its temporary pallor was not the most striking aspect of her appearance. At some point during the treatment, her head had been shaved. She now had a natural, short afro about thirty-five millimeters in length. Huffing, she moaned at M'Benga who sat reviewing notes for his shift change-over with Christine. "I look like a boy!"

"You will be used to your new reflection in a few days, and you do not look like a boy; you look like a woman who has been very seriously ill." He looked shy. "That reminds me, I have something for you. I hope it is appropriate." He opened the desk drawer and removed a flat, rectangular package wrapped in beautiful red and black silk tie-dye. Handing it over, he said. "You came here with nothing, I want to give you your first possessions." Overwhelmed, Uhura took the tiny package. The wrapping was a silk scarf, long and narrow, and as she unrolled it, the contents were revealed to be a tall, wide-toothed ebony comb, its handle carved with the stylised head of a woman. It looked like an heirloom. Anticipating her question, M'Benga quickly said, "It is a reproduction, replicated with the help of a friend in the computing lab."

Uhura sat staring at the items on her lap; they were beautiful, and, other than Mister Spock's handkerchief, they were all she had in the world. Unable to say much, she was just able to choke out a "Thank you".

Just then Christine passed. "I see you got your presents, I have something for you too." Fishing about in the same drawer, she drew out something very small, hidden in her hand. "I thought you would want these. They were all I could really save I'm afraid." She opened her palm to reveal Uhura and Kyle's _Enterprise _uniform patches.

Gazing up at Christine, Uhura felt a hot, heavy tear trace down her cheek. M'Benga leaned over and wiped it away with the end of her new scarf. "Two more days in here, then put your makeup on, girl, and you'll be ready to face the world."

It was Uhura's last day on the Sick Deck, and M'Benga was handling her discharge just before the end of first watch. He had given her clothing to change into. Utilitarian underwear was covered by a white, square-necked tank, edged in navy. Over that went a navy blue shirt with a traditional white naval collar that tied in front with thin laces. The collar had two rows of navy piping around the edge, and matching cuffs turned over at the end of the sleeves. Its silhouette was similar to that of the _Enterprise's _male uniforms. On the breast was _Enterprise Alpha's _insignia, the stylised shape of a sail. Finally, narrow stirrup pants tucked into calf-length heavy aviator-style boots with thick soles and two straps at the back. There was also a round sailor hat, with a ribbon bearing the ship's name, but she was damned if that monstrosity was going near her head.

Settling down in front of M'Benga in the doctor's office she asked, "Are you doing this deliberately, trying to make me look like a boy?"

M'Benga laughed, "Nyota, it's an Able Starman uniform, a junior officer rank. You should really get the lowest rank, Ordinary Starman, that's white and you just have to look at it and it gets dirty. All the officers wear these."

"You and Christine don't," she eyed the doctor's short double-breasted tail-coat, white breeches and long boots with envy. Christine's was a softer version of M'Benga's, with fuller tails, and it looked imposing, unlike these navy pyjamas.

"We are command ranks, and I know you will be again some day. I have always meant to ask, when we rescued you, you were not wearing any trousers. It raised a few eyebrows. Did they become damaged?"

Uhura sighed, "This uniform seems ridiculous to me, but at least I am covered. What you found me in _was _my uniform, our female crew did not wear trousers."

"Really? That is awful, a humiliation."

"I agree."

The doctor went over some possible side-effects with Uhura, "Please come back at any time if you feel anything unusual at all. Nurse Chapel and I will monitor you closely for at least the next six weeks. The Captain's Cabin Boy will arrive in a few minutes to escort you to your cabin, and Mister Scott will collect you at eighteen hundred hours to take you to mess. You have been allocated to his care for physical rehabilitation. Please eat and drink little and often for the first week, Nyota. Your digestive tract has been largely static for six months. Food will be a great shock. Oh, and you have been given an ovulation suppressant-it will last another six months."

"What? Mister Scott in Engineering? He's in charge of my physical therapy?"

"Yes, he is an accomplished instructor. See now, here is your escort."

Footsteps resonated behind Uhura and she spun on her chair to witness the entry of the most hauntingly striking boy she had ever seen. Every clichéd description of celestial beings sprung to mind but they could not come close to describing his bearing and countenance. His hair was white-blonde, pulled back in a tail at the nape of his neck, and eyes of glowing green looked steadily ahead as he stood in parade rest. His bone structure was strong but conversely elegant, and his skin, untroubled by any growth of beard, was almost translucent, with pale-blue, strong veins standing out on his neck. He was slim, upright and very tall, even taller than Mister Spock, and wore a version of the command uniform, but the jacket was without tails.

_Stiller than chiseled marble standing there_

_A son of the gods, divinely tall_

_And most divinely fair_

The creature-he seemed now to transcend gender-bowed slightly in the mannered style she saw from Spock, and M'Benga jerked his head in the universal sign of "Get along with you now, before I get sentimental." Grabbing a tiny kit bag, she followed the boy out of the office. Once on the other side of the Sick Deck door, the boy offered her his arm.

"I see you have been unwell, Ma'am, I'd be pleased if you would set the pace." Uhura was touched, having been prone up until three days ago. Despite the electro-mesh she wore, her legs were like quivering lead, at odds with their now stick-thin appearance.

"Thank you, sir; I've been unable to walk for six months. What is your name?"

The celestial being stopped. "Eala, my name is Eala, but everybody calls me Hawkins."

"Oh, why?" Uhura felt intimidated by the youth. He was like the maitre d' in the most exclusive restaurant in the Universe.

"It is a play on the fact that Jim Hawkins was the Cabin Boy in _Treasure Island_." his voice was surprising; deep and with a hint of a Terran Irish accent, "I believe it's some sort of joke, Ma'am."

"So you look after the Captain?"

"Yes, I carry out all his administration, and I run around after him like a blue-arsed fly!"

Uhura laughed, loud and long, finally wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "Has anyone ever told you that you don't behave how you look?"

"Not many," he said in mock-haughtiness, "only those who met me."

As they made their sluggish progress, Uhura admired the ship's corridors, which were paneled in what looked like cream-painted wood edged in soft gold. Every so often an antique naval print or small painting would break the monotony. The floors were diagonally tiled in black and white, and each time she stepped on one, she felt it give slightly. "Is this deck moving?"

"It is. The floors absorb kinetic energy which is stored to supplement the ship's supplies of steam. During the ship's night they light up a bit as well."

"Steam?"

"Yes, land-lubbers call it electricity."

"I think I have a lot to learn here Hawkins."

They were now standing in front of a lift, its doors opening smoothly to reveal a white, riveted metal interior with ornate, polished brass and wood support handles. As Hawkins gave the instructions, Uhura clung on, swaying queasily on her new limbs, and within seconds they were borne to the deck of her new accommodations. Before long they stopped at a dead-end, a pillared foyer lined with doors and comfortable, button-back couches. Low side tables and even a few fern-like plants broke the space up, and when she looked up to the ceiling, she saw it was of ornate Victorian paned glass, with blue sky and clouds above. In the centre of the foyer was a long dining table covered in a rich damask cloth.

"This is the Ward Room, the officer's accommodation. There are fourteen cabins around the outside for officer staff-you have number four, here, next to Palmer, our communications officer." Hawkins saw Uhura looking, baffled, at the ceiling; "It's a projection, Ma'am. Ada, project current star map." At once the night sky appeared, and darkness descended. The Cabin Boy instructed the projection to return to day.

"That is beautiful-is Ada your computer?"

"She is the interface to the computer, and much more agreeable. I've spoken a few times directly to the computer, Babbage. He's an oul' fart."

"I shouldn't be here," Uhura said. "I'm not really an officer."

"No, but Mister Spock requested you should be among familiar faces."

"Is his cabin here?"

"No, the Captain, the Commander and myself are on the uppermost deck. This is mainly bridge, medical and engineering staff. I'll show you how to code your door now, Ma'am." Once the door was dealt with, Hawkins asked Uhura to open it, and showed her inside her cabin. The room was compact, dark wood-lined with a side-on box bed at one end; drawers beneath. Everything was neatly packed in, including a flip-down desk, built-in velvet couch and a comfortable chair. There was also a small set of library steps. The bed-end had a shiny brass porthole, displaying the stars beyond.

"I'll just explain a few things now, Ma'am; Ada, open all panels." About half of the wooden panels slid aside, some in a vertical row like a door, to reveal a small head, a closet, a replicator and storage space. "If you need anything, just ask Ada, she'll help you. Mister Scott will be along at eighteen hundred to take you to mess. If I can be of any further assistance, please ask Ada to message me."

"Thank you, Hawkins, you have been so kind."

The boy bowed to her with the grace of a gymnast, "It's been a pleasure, Ma'am, and my best wishes for your rehabilitation." And with that, he was gone, his hair grazing the door-head, leaving Uhura sitting on her bed, clutching the tiny kit-bag containing her meagre possessions.

_My spirit is here alone_

_Walks forgotten and is forlorn_

– End part 5 –


	7. Part 6: Remade the blood and changed

**Part Six: Remade the blood and changed the frame**

The meagre possessions were unpacked: a comb, a scarf, a white linen handkerchief and a small bag of make-up and toiletries. Lastly, Uhura placed in a drawer two uniform patches - a pitiful reminder of a life lived elsewhere, and a brave colleague lost to one of the universe's many senseless events. Lying down, she tortured herself by re-playing the events of the shuttle destruction over and over, examining it from every angle to see if they could have foreseen the storm and acted sooner. Could she have postponed the mission for one day? Eventually her lament dissolved into a jagged dream.

Once more, she lay on a bio-bed immobile and mute. Men in blue medical smocks surrounded her. It was not the Sick-Deck of _Alpha_, but another facility altogether. A ship's faint hum was absent, and the glow flooding the room looked like genuine Terran sunlight.

_I was cut off from hope in that sad place, which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears._

Doctors around her were talking but, like listening through a wall with a glass, only the faintest medical terms filtered through, and even then they were unfamiliar. From the corner of her eye she could see a hand stroke her face, but felt nothing.

_My father held his hand upon my face; I, blinded with my tears still strove to speak: my voice was thick with sighs as in a dream._

She tried to focus on the hand but it was shadowed, and her vision was watery and blurred.

_Dimly I could descry the stern black-bearded kings with wolfish eyes waiting to see me die._

A bio-monitor beeped soft and slow, then gave out a low, continuous tone. Uhura's eyelids sank gently closed.

The tone of the bio-monitor became real as Uhura awoke, looking confusedly about her for a few seconds before realising where she was. She rolled round to her side; the noise was evidently some kind of door-buzzer.

"Um, Ada, open door." The door whispered open to reveal a familiar figure holding an elegant, silver-handled cane. "Scotty!" Tears pricked at her eyes; surely this would not happen every time she saw a known face? She gripped the bed cover, unsure how to behave.

He froze, staring at her. "I don't know what to say, lassie; it's like looking at a phantom. Ye look…like ye've been through the eye of a force twelve."

"Come in and sit Scotty. Do they call you that? Can I?"

Nervously fiddling with the cane he stepped in as the door closed behind him. "Aye, they do, and ye can." He sat in the desk chair and pulled it up towards where Uhura lay on the bed struggling to sit up. "Let's get ye up now." Scotty's gentle hand enveloped her back and levered her up. His touch was practised.

"You did that well, Scotty."

"Aye, well I know a fair bit about muscles. Your bed can help you up though, did Hawkins not tell you that? The Irish eejit. Ada, raise bed to sitting position." In a smooth sweep, the back of the bed rose up to meet Uhura. "Doctor M'Benga gave me this for ye" - he indicated the cane - "must've slipped his mind. Sorry I'm late, I was making a wee modification." He unscrewed the silver handle and withdrew from the cane an amber-coloured glass tube. "Finest Aberdeen Scotch, Glendronach. It's for emergencies only, especially given ye're sae thin, but I thought it might help, occasionally." He replaced the handle and propped the cane against the bed.

"Why thank you Scotty, I think it might." In anguish, she wondered what _Enterprise _Scotty would be doing? Fishing in Aberdeenshire at the end of his mission? Raising a hip flask to the memory of her and Kyle? Did he play his pipes at their Starfleet memorials?

Stricken, Scotty ran his fingers through his hair, raking his scalp and avoiding her eye. "Forgive me lass, it's just the last time I saw ye, ye were lying on the transporter pad like a doll dropped from a twenty-storey building, and when the doctor lifted the visor on your helmet, we all got one hell of a shock."

"I know Scotty. It's the same for me; I can't believe I'm here, and the strangest thing is, it's not the first time I have been in a parallel universe. It happened once before, and you were there too." As she told the story of the alternate Terran Empire the engineer's expression became incredulous.

"I don't think ye can go back this time lass, that wormhole, even if it opens again, made one hell of a mess o' your cutter. It's a miracle it didn't explode to kingdom come. Just a few seconds more and the craft would have made a bonny firework display."

Biting back morbid thoughts, she asked, faltering, "What happened to Kyle's body?"

"He's down in the morgue, minus an arm, looks nae too bad considering; we didn't want to give him a funeral 'til you got back. Man, that was strange, seeing him dead when he was large as life, walking around the ship. D' ye want to see him? I mean ... the body?"

She shook her head in the negative. "Not yet ... I'd rather see the live Kyle, although I think not for a few days; this is all too strange. Scotty, do you think Kyle's arm is on the other side of the wormhole?" Uhura imagined the macabre remain being picked up on Mister Spock's sensor. Perhaps poor Kyle's coffin had not been empty after all. She hoped for the sake of his partner and family that the limb was discovered and taken as a sign of his death. It would be hellish if they still held on in paralysed hope, unable to move their lives forward.

"Och," Scotty let out a long, considering huff, "well, we didn't find it, so I reckon it was; we didn't detect any significant traces of biological matter this end. Anyway, let's nae dwell on that. Why don't we go for some dinner?"

In the quiet mess Scotty explained he had chosen an early time in order to avoid whispers and stares. He tried to get Uhura to put on her hat to camouflage her identity and when she refused he muttered, "Well some bits of you are the same. When she was an officer, she hated the hat an' all."

In the event, there was little attention paid to them, "Well, ye dinnae really look like her; ye've been ill. Once ye get back to your right shape, and get some make-up on, ye'll look more similar, and that'll be gradual, so folks will be more accepting of it."

"Thanks, Scotty; you are a wise man in both Universes. I hear you are in charge of my physical therapy - that's intriguing."

"Aye, well it's a surprise, but it'll be a good few days away," he grinned. "Now eat yer veggies."

Awoken by Ada the following morning, Uhura was surprised to find she had been allocated a schedule. A replicated oatmeal breakfast preceded a walking route of four kilometres, mapped out on an ornate padd, around the corridors of the ship. It took her an hour and a half, an hour longer than it took her pre_-__Alpha _body, even with the aid of her cane. On return to her cabin, Ada directed Uhura to a storage cupboard where she found some light hand-weights.

"Run upper body weight program, rehabilitation level one," intoned Ada, in her flat register. Uhura almost hit the ceiling when a shimmering body appeared, as though transported into her cabin. She backed up towards the bed and grabbed her cane like a rapier as the shape materialised into the form of an athletic female of indeterminate humanoid species.

"Who are you? How did you get into my cabin?"

"Holographic instructor program, version 20.12."

Uhura advanced and nervously prodded the being; her cane went right through it. "You are a three-dimensional hologram?"

"Three-dimensional hologram, yes," the thing parroted.

"Right, let's get to work."

At mid-day, after the holographic tyrant had switched itself off, Ada informed Uhura of a two-hour lunch break. Stripping off and staggering to the shower, she sat leaden in the cubicle which had thoughtfully been provided with a waterproof chair. Water washed over her in waves until Ada announced the use of nine-tenths of her daily allocation. Rising on her wasted limbs she slid slightly on the damp floor, jerking her arm and striking a protruding wrist-bone hard on the ceramic tile of the wall. A frustrated stream of invective issued from her mouth as she rubbed the painful injury; there would be a lump the size of an egg there by evening. As if cued, Ada announced that Nurse Chapel was on the comm.

"Hey Uhura, I just wondered if you wanted some lunch. I thought I'd bring some up to your cabin. Replicated sushi OK?"

"Sounds good-see you."

Uhura balanced a tray on her lap while Christine sat at the desk. "You look about done in girl." Privately, Uhura thought the same about the nurse. Away from the sickbay she appeared diminished and her eyes were shadowed, behind them an evasively familiar look of preoccupation.

"I'm jelly - seems I have a punishing rehab schedule!"

Hands were held up in denial. "Not me! Blame McCoy, the old slave driver."

"Why hasn't he seen me? I don't think I've set eyes on him, just briefly heard him talking to Mister Spock."

Christine was momentarily silent, eyes cast to her tray, lips set in a thin line. "He didn't approve of your treatment. He thought it was risky. And he is not the Commander's biggest fan, although I think he doth protest too much."

"I could still die."

"You could, but every day you stay alive, the possibility lessens. What happened to your wrist?" The nurse had observed Uhura's struggle with her chopsticks.

"I just slipped and banged it, no biggie."

"Let me see."

Running her fingers over Uhura's wrist-bone she said, "That could have a hairline fracture. Come down to Sick-deck with me after we've eaten, and we'll get a scan. You are a fragile flower!"

"Can I ask you something, Christine?"

"Shoot."

"Why was Mister Spock so anxious to save me? Was it because of the other me? I heard him and Doctor McCoy saying he had sent her on a mission."

"Oh. You heard that? Well, I suppose you'll find out sooner or later. They were friends."

"Oh, _friends._"

"No, no, nothing like that, not lovers, but he was fond of her; they played music together. He authorised her first mission command. It was her first and only, and what'll really mess with your head is, she went with Kyle and he survived."

"Oh God." Uhura's stomach dropped as if she had missed the last step on a darkened staircase. "What happened?"

"They beamed down to an archaeological research station on planet M-113 to service some comms equipment, and she was attacked by a creature which drained all the salt from her body, causing a devastating drop in blood pressure and massive cardiac arrest. Although Kyle wrestled the thing off her and beamed them back up it was too late. We couldn't bring her back. Kyle was traumatised, and knowing there is another one of you on the ship, well, the whole set of events is just bizarre. It's almost unheard of for command crew to die. I think Mister Spock agonised over why he didn't ask a couple of marines to go with them, but the creature was unrecorded. It was just one of those things, nobody's fault. Weird things happen in space-I'm looking at one now. It will be difficult for some to handle seeing you. Newt was a really popular member of the crew. She's been badly missed."

"Newt?"

"I'll let Mister Scott explain why we called her that. When he starts your therapy."

"What is an engineer doing giving me physical therapy?"

"Oh, no, I'm not telling - it's a surprise. Now, come on to Sick-deck and we'll scan that wrist. And I'll nag grumpy old Bones to come and see you."

* * *

Medical intuition meant the Nurse was right; Uhura's wrist had a hairline fracture.

As she sat on a bio-bed, waiting for Nurse Chapel to return, a familiar voice cut through Uhura's mental wandering."Well, well, well, what have we here? It's sleeping beauty." Doctor McCoy stood in front of her, hands folded across his chest. His uniform was immaculate but his hair looked hastily combed, and a faint shadow of stubble dusted his chin. This wasn't his shift; Christine must have requested his presence.

Once more, as when she'd seen Scotty, emotion welled up, but she controlled it, not wishing to seem unprofessional. After all, this man barely knew her. Not knowing what to do, she simply said, "Hello Doctor."

"How d'ya feel?"

"Like someone who rolled over Victoria Falls in a barrel, then was confined to bed for six months."

"That'll about do it. It's not the fall that kills ya, it's the landing."

Uhura smiled, but when she looked into the doctor's eyes, she saw only a mirror of the nurse's exhausted, minutely preoccupied expression.

"Well, I'm not going to do much to treat this. As far as I'm concerned, you're an _experiment_, and I'll continue in that vein. I want to see how long your body takes to heal on its own. Nurse Chapel will get you a splint and a painkiller." Abruptly, he spun round towards the office, leaving Uhura feeling as though she had been slapped. The office door closed and sharp, raised voices could be heard; male and female. Then the nurse strode out, avoiding Uhura's eye and making quickly for the rear portion of the Sick-deck where a door led, presumably, to another part of the ward.

Uhura hauled her legs up onto the bed and lay down, trying to calm her racing heartbeat. To distract herself she reflected on the surroundings properly for the first time. The walls were white, the floor looked like polished teak parquet, and the bio-beds were covered in a white leatherette piped in navy. Like the _Enterprise _beds, they tilted to a standing position, but on shining, multi-hinged brass legs which retracted like spindly crab claws. The bio-monitors were a three-by-two line of needle-gauges with polished bezels set in a wooden panel, each engraved below with _pulse, respiration, blood-pressure, temperature, brain activity, electrolytes_. Below them, intriguingly, were two marked _other._ Uhura knew they were not really needle-gauges, but tiny circular computer screens, but the ship designer's whimsy was uplifting. Just as her heart slowed, she heard soft footfalls and twisted round, expecting to see Christine, but the deck was empty. One sense never, ever let Uhura down. Sick or well, her hearing was acute.

"Ada, lower bio-bed to standing position." The bed lowered, Uhura stepped to the side on cat-feet and crept towards the direction of the noise, the door Christine had stepped through only a minute before.

_Is this the end, to be left alone? To live forgotten and die forlorn?_

"Who's there?" Her question was over-loud and querulous. The next breath she inhaled was frigid as the neutral temperature of the sick deck became inclement. Uhura faltered, bringing her injured wrist across her eyes as a shield. Every part of the ward appeared unfocused, indistinct, too bright, too cold. The light was invasive to her eyes, harsh and stinging. Chest constricting, she coughed, trying to expel an alien irritant from her lungs. The rise and fall of her breast had almost stopped and she felt her own heartbeat slowing. From the floor beneath her feet, Uhura heard a nauseating sound, a dry, hollow scuttling; something was dry-clattering about her boots. Saliva flooded the back of her mouth and she clamped down hard on the urge to vomit.

_I'm going mad - the situation is too much for me - I have post-traumatic stress._

Now paralysed in horror, she forced her head down towards the repulsive scrabbling. Her nostrils flared in an attempt to quiet her breath. At last her eyes focused on her feet and her stomach churned. Acid bile rose in her throat and every hair on her flesh rose in its follicle. There was nothing there.

A chill film of despair crawled upon her skin as she resumed her path to the door as if magnetised, still teetering on frail legs but moving as though caught in quicksand. On her advance, the despair weighed colder and heavier. Uhura's hands became damp and clammy, her uniform fabric felt as though it was caught in a light sea-spray and freezing algid sweat oozed at the roots of her hair. Every step closer to the sealed room caused her bladder to contract. Invisible wet fingers pushed into her palm and she snatched her hand up in horror. The door moved aside at a creeping pace to reveal...a perfectly normal scene.

"Oh! Hello Uhura, I've got your splint." Christine stood in the doorway, holding a plastic brace, her eyes were pink-rimmed. "Are you OK?"

Like the tentacles of a disturbed anemone, the presence had recoiled. "I'm fine."

"Well, since you're up, we'll just put this on here." She clipped the brace around Uhura's wrist, showed her how to slide back a small bolt to release it, then shot a painkilling hypo into her forearm.

"Thanks, Christine-are _you_ all right?"

The nurse replied with forced cheer. "Yes, of course, see you in two days, right? You're off the hook for the weights 'till then, but you'll still have to do your walking."

"Right, thanks." Uhura nodded, shuffled to her cane and barely made it from the sick deck with her composure intact. After a few hobbling paces down the corridor, she slumped against a wall shivering, her breath rapid and erratic. In her distress she realised she had no idea how to return to her cabin. Hailing a passing Ordinary Starman with her cane she explained her predicament. If he was surprised at the location of her quarters he was polite enough not to show it.

"I'll show you how to get directions Ma'am. Ada, one De Gama holographic locator, destination, Ward Room."

Uhura watched in amazement as a sleek black cat materialised at her feet.

"There you are, Ma'am, just follow that. I had to use them all the time when I was new."

This ship was full of surprises.

* * *

The holographic cat dissolved as soon as they reached the Ward Room and Uhura lowered her shaken bones into one of the comfortable couches, unwilling to negotiate the transition to her cabin. As she sat gingerly, the last few degrees an ungainly and rapid descent, a sharp pain stabbed her in the hip. Putting her hand to it, she felt a series of hard lumps; something was in the pocket of her trousers. As she pressed her fingers to its shape, she heard a dry, hollow scraping.

-End part six-


	8. Part 7: Prime your musket

A/N: Grateful thanks to chapter wranglers, LadyFangs and TeaOli who helped kick this into shape, and as always my wonderful beta, SpockLovesCats. She is a patient lady! I own nothing. Just thought, 7 chapters in, that I would mention that.

**Part 7 - Prime your musket**

Time passed, stars flew by, portholes got shined, decks were scrubbed, and Starmen moved about the ship. Uhura drifted like flotsam – her strength growing – agitating for a job of work. To her surprise, her fractured wrist healed in only a few days. Medical staff dismissed her questions with the explanation that her 'treatment' was responsible for her body's regenerative capabilities, and deftly swept away her curiosity. As M'Benga threw her wrist-brace into the sanitiser she saw weary strain in his face, and grief overwhelmed her for these people who kept a common silence. Its weight was in the lines on a forehead, the drag of a shoulder, or the red in the white of an eye.

To alleviate her feelings of redundancy, Uhura began, on Mister Spock's advice, to navigate her way through the course-work required to sit the exams for computing crew on the ship. Unsurprisingly, the instructions had been relayed via Hawkins, who showed her how to access the materials. Commander Spock himself was elusive. Left to her own devices, Uhura found the work challenging but fascinating, and was gratified to see her scores on practical tests rising over time.

Another three weeks went by and, freighted with grief, Uhura kept her own counsel. When she could no longer bear it she went, a reluctant subject, to Doctor Helen Noel, the ship's psychiatrist. Theories of parallel worlds were just that, and in this universe nobody had ever crossed over from one to another; the psychiatrist had no experience of counselling a person in Uhura's position so she urged her to say anything.

Uhura picked at the pile of her chair upholstery, her short, polish-free nails a reminder of her displacement. "I can't talk to anyone. I feel like an only child whose parents are dead. I've got nobody to share the memories with, to keep them alive. The crew here are not _my_ crew, but they look like them, and act like them. This Mister Spock has long sideburns, Nurse Chapel is a brunette and Scotty is like a whippet, wiry and lean. At night I dream the _Enterprise _crew is at a party. I'm looking at them through a thick glass wall and they're all laughing and smiling but I can't hear them. I knock on the wall but I start to dissolve; my hand turns to mist and then I wake up...

"...I can't go to the mess and say to someone: 'hey, do you remember when Mister Spock told me Vulcan had no moon?' or, 'remember when Chekov was dating Landon, he told her the Garden of Eden was in Russia?' Nobody knows me. On the Sick-deck I kept willing it all to be a dream; now every morning I wake up and I really believe I'm going to be back in my own rooms on the _Enterprise._ And then..._"_

"That happens to survivors of disasters who lose everything, including their friends, family and possessions. Your denial is natural. What you are experiencing is huge, too much to take in at once." Doctor Noel's voice was tranquil; she managed to be enquiring without actually asking any questions.

"I dream I'm on stage, the spotlight is on me, and it's so dark in the stalls I can't see the audience. When the lights come up there is nobody there, so I go back-stage and the whole place is deserted, no stage-hands, no lighting crew, no make-up people. All the dressing rooms are empty and I'm pulling every door open, but there is nobody anywhere."

"Have you made any friends on the ship?"

"Scotty has been meeting me for dinner twice a week; I'm starting physical therapy with him later. Doctor M'Benga and Nurse Chapel have been very friendly. I don't know what I'd have done without them, but I don't want to bother them."

"Bother them?"

"They're busy people."

"Lack of self-worth is normal for trauma victims."

"You mean I don't feel I'm worthy of their friendship?"

The doctor didn't reply to Uhura's question. "I think we need to get you back to work. Your scores on the computing tests are already extremely impressive. My file says that Commander Spock will be overseeing your induction to join the ship's computing crew, I'll contact him and set things in motion. How does that sound?"

"Good, I think it would do me good. I need to feel useful."

The remainder of Uhura's hour was spent – on Doctor Noel's suggestion – telling stories about her family and the _Enterprise _crew, keeping them alive in her mind. As the session drew to a close, the doctor had one last piece of advice. "I think you should keep a video diary. Pretend you're telling your story to your family and your _Enterprise _friends; reminisce with them, tell them how much you miss them. It'll help you to process what you are going through - Ada can show you how to do it. And make an appointment to see me next week. You know you can talk to me about anything in these sessions; it doesn't even have to be about your situation."

As instructed, Uhura stood just outside the entrance to the hangar deck wearing her white tank, stirrup pants and boots. She leaned on her cane, but no longer needed it, only bringing it along in case Scotty's physical therapy warranted a post-traumatic shot of whisky. Right on time, her teacher for the evening appeared around the corner.

"How goes it, lass?"

"Fine, Scotty, you?"

"Och, good, and ye are in for a treat tonight. Physical therapy starts tomorrow so tonight ye are going tae help me set up the equipment. How's yer biceps?"

"Quite good, Tyra has helped me a lot."

"Who's that, lassie?"

"Holographic instructor program, version 20.12. I nicknamed her Tyra because she's a _tyrant_."

"It's good to see a smile on yer face."

With a heavy swoosh, the bay doors slid aside and instructor and pupil stepped into the dim cathedral-like space of the hangar deck. Dark silhouettes of cutters could be made out along one wall, interspersed with occasional tidy heaps of supplies or construction materials secured for launch conditions.

Scotty guided Uhura gently by the elbow to stand front and centre. "Ada, lights on prow-wall to 90%." The area in front of them lit up, revealing a peculiar vertical landscape. Brightly coloured lumps, like giant wads of spat-out bubblegum, littered the wall as high as two Terran houses. At shoulder height, a red stripe about thirty centimetres wide traversed the surface, and thick mats lay on the floor beneath the wall.

"Well lass, d' ye like me climbing wall?"

"_This _is my physical therapy?"

"Aye, best thing for strengthening muscles is your own body-weight; but first, we're gonnae have some rare fun. See the port side of the wall? We've nae bothered with that yet; you and I are sorting that out tonight, and modifying it tomorrow. It's a wee bit o' recovery therapy for ye."

About two meters of the wall in a vertical strip had no lumps. Uhura was puzzled. "How can we fix that?"

Scotty grinned and walked over to a makeshift bunker behind them, constructed from ship's ballast bags. Reaching over, he pulled up a large-diameter weapon with a shoulder-rest at the rear, and a laser-sight fixed on top.

"Gods – is that a mortar launcher?"

"Och, no lass - nothing as crude as that; it's a replica of an old weapon for launching sticky-bombs. The infantry used tae fire them at buildings years ago. I just did a wee modification on it to fire resin balls that stick tae the wall."

Uhura grinned. "Scotty, do you have to 'make a wee modification' to every piece of engineering equipment that comes your way?"

"Aye, I do that - otherwise, where would be the fun? Want tae get tae work?"

"Aye, Commander."

Scotty led Uhura round the back of the bunker. To her delight, it concealed a shallow open cage full of resin balls in different sizes, from a large marble to a cantaloupe. She remembered her mother taking her and Ayan to a shopping centre in Nairobi when her sister was about seven. Ayan had begged to be taken to something called a ball-pit, where children leaped around in a tank full of bright, squashy spheres. A teenager then, Uhura had sat on the sidelines, exuding an air of disdainful cool while desperately wishing she was small enough to dive in and roll around.

"Go on," said Scotty.

"What?"

"Don't give me yon innocent look, everybody wants to. Jump in! They're soft enough."

Unable to refuse her inner child; she leaned over the edge of the cage and sank into the depths. It felt like wriggling into a giant bean-bag and she lay beached and happy for some moments, her legs dangling over the side.

"Right lass, if we are going tae make a lieutenant of you again, up and back to work." Scotty held out a gallant hand and pulled Uhura from the cage. After a few minutes of instruction on what the engineer called the 'bogey firers,' she felt fairly confident. "Ada, force field around firing range, project the climbing-wall schematic on blank area, lights to optimum sighting levels."

Magically, the lights dimmed and the blank space in the wall lit up with pinpricks of light that corresponded to the colours of the resin balls. It was like looking at a constellation through a prism.

Uhura gasped, "That's glorious."

"Aye, well, just pop a bogey in yer firer, tip it to the back and remember tae wait for the beep to tell you it's been heated and softened, then line it up wi' the proper colour using your sight, and pull. Tell ye what this needs – a bit o' music. Ada, play Scotty's fire-tape, start at track three." A pulsing, heavy beat filled the space; combined with the lights, it felt like being in a club. Uhura grabbed a blue melon-sized ball. She lined the firer up to a glowing indigo spot on the wall using the sight, squeezed the trigger and watched the ball hit its target with a satisfying – and loud – thwack.

Staring at the lower surface of the deck above, thrown to her back on a padded mat, Uhura punched the air and shouted: "Direct hit!"

"Aye, ye'll get used to the kick-back in a few firings."

Half an hour later, having peppered the wall with resinous lumps, Uhura and Scotty fell back on the mats (Uhura for the eleventh time) laughing until their snorting breath came in starts.

"Scotty, you are the best physical therapist a girl could have." She started to cry.

"Lass, what is it?" He gathered her in a hug, petting her like a child.

"I'm laughing, but Kyle's dead, and everyone is gone."

"I know, ah'm sorry." The gritty scrape of boots came towards them. Scotty dropped Uhura like a hot oatcake and sat up. "Oh shite, it's the wife."

From the vantage point of the floor, Uhura's eyes travelled up long legs encased in high officer's boots and white britches that appeared sprayed on. A tight white waistcoat with two rows of silver buttons polished to mirrors wrapped itself around a slim torso. Completing the look was a collarless button-down shirt with deep cuffs, the neck parted. In the dim light the woman's skin glowed like silk; her head was shaved down to the fearful symmetry of her skull and giant diamond studs glittered in her ear-lobes.

Reaching over with unhurried grace, she plucked Uhura's cane from against the bunker, unscrewed the handle and withdrew the hidden vial. Long fingers uncapped the stopper and brought the whisky to her lips; she took a calm swig. Shouting over the thumping bass, she commanded the computer:

"Ada, lights to full please. Music off."

Uhura was sure she knew the voice. "Charlene? Charlene Masters?"

"What do you know - Scotty closes the wall for 'maintenance' this evening and what do I find? Some _trollop _trying to get into his pants."

"I'm not – it's not like that – _trollop_? Don't you talk to me like that!" Uhura didn't think people still used such archaic words; she almost laughed.

"I'll talk to you as I see fit, Able Starman."

Uhura wrangled her limbs to a standing position and got up into Charlene's face. "You don't know who you are dealing with - my ancestors were warriors!"

"Well, my ancestors were from The Bronx!" Charlene's mouth twisted...and trembled, her eyes becoming bright. "Uhura? I'm so sorry, I didn't recognise you – you look so different from her." The engineer threw her arms around the other woman and snuffled into her neck. "I think I know why you were hugging Scotty."

"Correction, Charlie – I was huggin' the lass – she looked like she needed it." Scotty volunteered.

"_Charlie?_" mouthed Uhura towards the commander.

"Aye, Charlie is my darlin'."

Two minutes later, all three of them were crammed into the tank of resin balls, passing round the vial of whisky. "So you two are married then?"

"Yup, three years." Masters flashed a platinum band set with glinting stones.

"You don't wear a ring then, Scotty?"

"You're nae very observant, lass; look close." He offered his hand; a silvery grey Celtic band was tattooed around his ring finger. "I dinnae like wearing a ring when I'm climbing or working - this was safer - and easier."

Sitting in the ball-tank, shooting the breeze, Uhura finally felt a little less lonely. If the medical team here seemed strained, this Scotty and Charlene made up for it with their chilled-out happiness. At one point Scotty gave a startled squeak and glared at his wife. "Now lass, hands above the balls please – put them where I can see them."

Through her laughter at Scotty's _double-entendre_ Uhura tried not to dwell on what awaited her in her quarters. Almost a month ago she yanked a bizarre, unaccountable object in terror from her uniform trousers, thrust it into her desk drawer and slammed the drawer shut. Tomorrow she would open the drawer, and start asking questions.

– END part 7 –


	9. Part 8: A glorious devil, large in heart

Thanks again to chapter wranglers TeaOli and LadyFangs. Very special hugs to SpockLovesCats; a lovely, patient beta, who has been a wee bit poorly :-) aww...

ps, sorry for delay, and ff has been doing odd things to my italicised text, hope I caught it all! Thanks so much if you are still with me after the delay!

**Part 8 – A glorious devil, large in heart and brain**

Sleep was elusive; Uhura tossed and turned on her bunk, scratching at her tight, itchy skin. Never in her life had her body betrayed her this way; this was yet another side-effect of her mysterious _treatment__._ Christine's clipped tones jumped into her subconscious, telling Uhura to keep her hands to herself. She knew she shouldn't scratch but the events of the evening had tired her out, and the journey all the way down to the sick-deck seemed a daunting inconvenience.

Admitting defeat, and wishing for relief above all else, she threw back the thin blanket and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. So strong was the compulsion to scream with frustration that she gripped the side of her box bed with cramped fingers, to the point of numbness, before she felt ready to rise and and walk to her closet. Her intention was to pull some uniform pants on over her short pyjamas. Surely Doctor Sanchez would not mind a half-dressed patient on his night-shift? Now _he_ was an enigma, newly arrived from an away mission. M'Benga's haunted demeanour had lightened upon the Spanish medic's return. Uhura thought – cynically – that this was due to the appearance of another worker to carry the yoke that bowed the medical team.

The door buzzed. Who would come at this time of night? It was after 23.00. Assuming the visitor to be Christine, or even M'Benga, she instructed them to enter. Knowing they had "seen it all" - and more - she held her uniform pants still in her hand. It was Commander Spock. "Oh, Commander, I wasn't expecting you, I'm sorry." Nyota glanced to her shorts-clad legs, swaying slightly as her muscles tensed, while her hands became claws in an effort not to gouge at her flesh.

"May I come in?" The commander stood in the doorway, uniformed but without his jacket, and his stock discarded. This was a signal on _Enterprise__ Alpha_that he was off-watch.

"Of course, sir."

"Miss Uhura, you seem to be in some discomfort."

"I am, Commander, my skin is itching like nothing I've ever experienced."

"Indeed. I have brought you a gift." From behind his back he drew a slim, faceted glass bottle with a silver-filigree stopper. It was filled with an ochre liquid.

"Liquor?"

"It is not; it is an oil made from the seed of a Vulcan fruit called naric. My mother finds the Vulcan atmosphere irritating to her skin; this aids her greatly." He placed the bottle on her desk and Nyota admired the immaculate condition of his large hands.

"Thank you, that's very thoughtful." She took the bottle from him after an awkward dance of moves designed to avoid touching his fingers.

There it was, that look. Weariness and preoccupation, as if he was seeing something in the periphery of his vision.

_But__ sometimes __in__ the __failing __day__, __an __image __seem__'__d __to __pass __the __door__._

Inquisitive, Nyota unstopped the bottle and was broadsided with a memory so powerful she had to steady herself on the edge of the desk.

..._Enterprise_ Spock, leaning down over her console, taking her spare earpiece to listen to a puzzling transmission. His body so close she had to swallow a sigh, the smell of his hair like a spiced breeze. If she swivelled her chair, her lips would meet his ear...

"Are you unwell, Uhura?"

"Sorry sir – the smell is familiar to me, from my Spock." _God__, __did__ I __just__ say__ '__my__'? _Nyota mentally kicked herself for the mortifying slip.

An eyebrow rose. "Vulcans also use this oil on their hair, obviously in more than one Universe. May I sit for a short time? I should like to hear of your progress."

Nyota gestured for him to sit at her desk and sat on the edge of the bed. Warmth spread through her veins as she watched Spock's long fingers grasp the bottle on the desk, re-stop it and rub a light smear of oil into the palm of his hand with precision.

"How did you know to bring me the oil – sir?"

"My motives were not altogether altruistic. Vulcans sleep little; however, I wish to sleep for a few hours tonight."

She thought his inexact estimate of the duration of his sleep an indication of the fatigue that pressed on him.

"I was attempting to review a research paper when I had the most curious sensation; my dermis felt as though it was crawling with fire-ants." He cleared his throat. "My skin burned as if from the assault of a wire brush. If you recall, while you received your treatment I created a shallow bond between us, primarily to ascertain your medical condition, and to determine whether you were in pain or physical distress."

"Oh, I forgot ... about the bond."

"Indeed, perhaps in future you will seek medical relief _before_ your condition becomes critical. May I assist by easing some of your discomfort?"

Was he offering to apply the oil to her skin? Nyota's eyes grew wide.

"I can teach you a Vulcan technique for alleviating pain."

She began breathing again. "That'd be really helpful sir, thank you."

"Close your eyes." She complied. "Visualise your pain, take time to examine it. Allow your pain to take a form, or a persona."

The itching was nauseating. Biting insects she could not disperse crawled on her skin; piercing, sucking, wanting more. A cloud of filthy tsetse flies swarmed in the light behind her eyelids emitting a high-pitched drone. The long-remembered sound was enough to twitch her limbs in imitation of a dreamed dive into the cool sea.

"What do you see? What shape has your pain revealed?" The low voice stalled. "One moment, there is … another."

The commander was silent for some time and Nyota began to wonder what was happening – then she heard the drawn-out squeak of her desk drawer being opened followed by the soft, hollow scrape of an object being lifted out. Every muscle in her body went on alert and her navel seemed to jerk towards her spine; fight or flight. Spock's voice was low and hard. "Where did you obtain this?"

Nyota opened her eyes; from the commander's fingers dangled the object that had mysteriously appeared in her pocket weeks before. "I – I don't know, it just...appeared..." suddenly an officer once more, "Sir!"

"This is not your property."

"I know sir, I honestly don't know where it came _from_. I was down in Medical a few weeks ago and I _felt_ something, and when I got back up here – there it was." The white lie sounded less crazy to her than the actual tale.

"You _felt_ something – explain."

"I can't explain; a presence, a loss, an absence, sorrow...despair." She was babbling horribly.

The Vulcan's eyes looked into hers and stripped her raw, his calculating silence suffocating. As he stared, Nyota finally felt able to look at the item now being caressed between his fingers; a tiny, sexless, articulated wooden doll with faded violet skin. The crudely painted features suggested a stroke-victim's asymmetry, and wisps of black hair clung to its scalp in an obscene parody of illness. Worst of all, its withered limbs with their tapering, tubular forms reminded Nyota of her own legs before therapy, shapeless and frail. To her, the object was a malevolent toy whose destruction could only bring devastation to its dispatcher.

"Have you spoken of this to anyone else?"

"N-no Commander – sir." She faltered in her shock at his altered demeanor.

"Very well, do not do so. This subject is not for discussion – with anyone."

She couldn't stop herself. "This ship has secrets."

Commander Spock rose and tucked the doll with care into the pocket of his waistcoat. Bending down close to her face he addressed Nyota with terrifying calm: "'There are more things in heaven and earth, Uhura, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'" He turned his back, reached her door in one stride and commanded it to open.

Left alone, Uhura slumped onto the bunk and twined her fingers in the cover until she cut off their circulation.

The naric oil did indeed alleviate the tightness of Uhura's skin, but it reminded her miserably of the _Enterprise__ – _and her First Officer. She sat slumped at her desk in despondence, feeling hard-done-by that she had not been instructed in Vulcan pain-relief. Ashamed by her wallow in self-pity at the confusing turn her interaction with Mister Spock had taken, she decided to follow the advice of the ship's psychiatrist.

"Ada, show me how to record a video diary." A shimmering holo-screen bordered by an ornately curlicued gilt frame appeared in front of her face like a floating vanity mirror, and Ada listed the commands to start and stop recording in an efficient monotone. "Ada, can I tag the vids with meta-data?"

"Affirmative."

Lord, even the computer reminded her of Spock. If Uhura died here in this universe she wanted some of her intimate thoughts to remain private. She quickly devised a schema of tags to protect her diary and instructed Ada that a basic password encryption be attached to vids that had certain tags.

Ever since she'd been released from her induced coma, the plight of Kyle's partner and family had haunted her. She began a halting explanation of the circumstances of his death, her guilt, his bravery and his standing as a respected and valued member of the _Enterprise__'__s_ crew. Stumbling through her recollections, and frustrated by her uncharacteristic inarticulacy, she ordered the recording to stop. She wasn't ready.

"Ada, play back recording." Watching herself speak on the vid was very different from seeing her reflection briefly in a mirror. Here, unlike on the _Enterprise, _her scrutiny of her altered appearance was deliberately fleeting. The woman who looked back was a shadow, her colours faded. Worst of all, her eyes reflected the distracted look of someone trying to catch a memory that was slipping away like sand through an hour-glass.

"Ada, delete recording NU dash 001." As the holo-screen dissolved, Uhura rose and pulled some clothes on over her pyjamas. "Ada, where would an Able Starman who couldn't sleep go for a walk?"

"The palm-house is a popular choice for private contemplation and gentle exercise."

She asked for a De Gama locator – destination palm-house – commanded the door to open, grabbed her cane and followed a huge ginger tom out of her cabin.

When the cat winked out of existence, Uhura figured she had reached her destination. She stood in front of high double-doors of paneled and painted wood, sporting fancy brass handles and finger plates engraved with acanthus leaves. Unlike the other doors in the ship, these were actual, old-fashioned swing doors. Uhura shouldered one open and was transported, as if she had fallen through a hole in the Earth's crust to end up in a lost world.

A red brick path curled away from the door, bordered by upright stones keeping back rich, friable earth. Tropical ferns towered above, alongside rubber-trees and huge fruit-bearing bushes. Tall palms were crowned by explosions of leaves and fruit, like fireworks in mid-burst, and fluffy blue trailing plants dripped down from such heights that they seemed to have no point of anchor.

She craned her neck and leaned back on her cane to look in awe at the height of the roof, held up by elegant but improbably spindly iron columns. To a height of about fifteen meters, the walls were sandstone punctuated by huge arched windows, multi-paned and shining. Above, a double-vaulted glass and iron structure glittered in a patchwork of reflected light from floating paper lanterns. Two high walkways, held up by pierced ironwork brackets, bordered the perimeter of the construction. The upper walkway was at the level of the higher vault, which seemed to be in the stars.

"It always gets you like this the first time...and the fiftieth."

Uhura spun round and was confronted by a wiry upright figure, arms folded over his chest.

"Mister Sulu." This time, she was determined to be strong, even 'though meeting each new person was like finding out you had identified the wrong body after a disaster and your friend was there in front of you, large as life.

He stuttered in his greeting, "Good evening, Uhu – Uhura," and, obviously discombobulated, decided to simply carry on an explanation of the construction of the palm-house. "She's a beauty, isn't she? The lower windows are holographic, but the upper vaults are real. Sixty-four sections of transparent aluminium, cast and set within an opaque frame to give the illusion of over three thousand panes. Twenty-five meters high, lightweight resinstone walls and paving. The soil and plants are real, over seventy varieties from eleven planets."

"It's beautiful, Mister Sulu. Do you help look after this?"

He nodded and gazed up. "A little. I do some research, grafting, cross-pollination, things like that. Would you like to meet the others? There are a few of us playing poker – you always..." The lieutenant looked away, "Sorry, I..." A long breath was huffed out. "Well, this is weird."

"At least you only have to meet one of me. I've been meeting lots of you."

"Good point." He led her round to a quiet, plant-screened corner of the palm-house, past couples dawdling arm-in-arm, and folks sitting on ornate 'cast iron' benches. Solitary promenaders were, perhaps, lost in maths problems or poetry. Sitting round a circular table laid with a thick felt cloth were Masters, Hawkins and, causing her stomach to plummet, Lieutenant Kyle.

Kyle jumped up, almost tipping his chair. The moment sparked, like the connection between good friends long fallen-out who are introduced at a party by an oblivious host. The whole company froze and the scene contracted to a tiny bubble of light containing just Uhura and Kyle.

"I'm sorry – "

"I'm – "

"You go first – "

"No, you – "

"Oh for crying out loud." Charlene grabbed the hem of Uhura's shirt and pulled her into an empty chair. "This freakery can be discussed in the psychiatrist's office. Let's play poker."

"Indeed." This came from Hawkins and was accompanied by a Spockian raised eyebrow.

Nyota examined the boy's long, lanky frame and slim hands. "You remind me a lot of Commander Spock, Hawkins."

A murmur traveled round the table, and members of the group glanced at each other beneath lowered eyes. "Ah, you don't know then, Ma'am?"

"Know what?"

"Commander Spock is my father."

All eyes were on Uhura as she tried to process this bewildering piece of information. Her mouth opened, but all she could do was twist her head incrementally towards the roof, her brain in a condition of short-circuit.

Both Hawkins' eyebrows rose in query, his silence contained for some seconds, and then... an explosion of laughter. "Jaysus Ma'am! My dad is alive and well and living in County Cork."

Masters looked at Hawkins with motherly condescension: "Right, you've had your fun; if you weren't such a good boy at keeping the Captain in order I'd have you on report. Deal the cards – Boy!"

Uhura's shock gave way to giggles. She liked this ship. It was...fascinating.

– End part 8 –


	10. Part 9: Her eyes they shine

A/N

Part 11 we will find out what is going on. Thanks again to wonderful beta SpockLikesCats, and chapter wranglers TeaOli and LadyFangs. You guys give me light at the end of the tunnel after a very difficult year – really.

**Part 9 – Her eyes, they shine like diamonds**

Tangled in weeds, she tries to free herself and surface; not because she is drowning, but in avoidance of the cold. Breathing underwater is natural to her now. In dreams she swims along the river bed, lifting and discarding smooth, soft pebbles. Fleet, feathery fish brush her limbs as they dance among shafts of light that lance the water.

Tonight, the current is too cool and she needs to ascend into the warm breezy sunshine. Harder she tugs on the thicket of weed, and stronger it fastens to her kicking legs. Her cotton shift binds itself around her torso, constricting her ribcage and stilling her breaths. A change of tactic is required; she hangs completely still, and the weed bindings loosen.

At once, she awakens in her box-bed on _Alpha;_ the bed sheet twisted around her like a boa constrictor and her body marinating in a pool of chill, slimy sweat.

Scotty was off-duty, and foregoing her morning ship-walk, Uhura reported once more to the hangar-deck where the Chief Engineer handed her a webbing harness with a laser-cutter hanging from a utility-loop.

"Scotty, I swear if I came to Engineering and you gave me a dill pickle, a battery and some electrical wire I would believe there was a legitimate point to it."

"Aye, well, if I did that there would be; ye can make a light bulb from a pickle and a current, it's the conductivity in the salt ..."

Uhura held up a hand in a gesture of silence. "I know, Scotty, I was just teasing to see if you were awake."

The Scotsman laughed. "Ye're startin' to look better, Uhura. Not so much like an auld yin."

"Some days I feel really old, Scotty."

Once he had her tied in the harness, the engineer gave Uhura a pair of tight, slip-on rubberised shoes. Scotty pulled on a pair of his own and instructed Ada to drop two ropes down. Uhura looked at the end of her rope for a clip but the rope was bare. "How do we...?"

"We're doin' it the old-fashioned way – I'm going to teach you to tie two knots; a rewoven figure of eight and a double fisherman's back-up slip knot. It's my wee concession to not being on a real sailing ship. I like tae pretend I'm in the rigging. And besides, tyin' yer own knot concentrates the mind with regards to safety."

"I bet it does."

"Right; watch me. Pull out about 75 centimetres of rope and make a loop, wrap yer loose end around the back of the rope the loop's depending from, then poke the end through the loop. See, you've made a figure of eight. Now thread the end through the anchor point on yer harness and re-thread the knot in the other direction, like this." Practised fingers worked slowly and carefully through the steps several times, and Uhura followed until she could tie the knot without watching her instructor.

..."Now grab your loose end again and wrap it twice round the rope just above your first knot, top to bottom. Now hold the bit you just wrapped, double the end back, and from below, poke that end through the bits to lie alongside the main bit o' rope. That's yer double fisherman's backup knot, just in case the first one fails because you had tae tie it with two fingertips shot off...in the field, like. You might not have fancy Starfleet clips on your rope if you're escaping from a Gorn jail using nothing but an old bit o' vine and the parts from a smashed phaser."

Uhura raised her eyebrows at Scotty but he didn't seem to be making a joke.

With concentration, she took a moment to re-tread the steps in her mind before mimicking her instructor's movements. Finally satisfied she could tie her rope, the engineer instructed Ada to take them up. Never a fan of heights, Uhura was determined to behave like a professional officer, but as they rose to the top of the hangar-deck she felt a familiar spinning in her head. Staring fixedly at the wall as it moved past, she was determined not to look down and lose her nerve, or her breakfast. Instead, she concentrated on the burr of the pulley above and the quiet, high-pitched whine of sleek rope as it relayed through the mechanism. She heard it go silent before the rope stopped, in much the same way that a race-starter sees the smoke from his pistol before the report.

"Are ye all right, Uhura?"

"Fine," she breathed, through clenched jaws.

"Right, well if ye want tae go down, just say an' we'll go down."

"No, I'm fine."

They spent a few minutes going over the job in hand then got to work shaping the now hardened blobs of resin with the laser-tools, making them into different types of hand and foot holds according to their size. Uhura found once more that tasks set by the Chief Engineer cleared her mind and she barely noticed the passing of an hour, or the fact that she was twenty meters from the deck.

"Right; we've done a good amount of that lass. D'ye fancy a wee bit o' climbing? Just fifteen minutes? We won't go high."

"Yes, that would be good."

Scaling the lumpy face of the hangar-deck wall was tough; she hadn't fully appreciated how far her muscles had deteriorated. With Scotty barking out directions, "Left foot eight o' clock!" and, "Keep yer backside _in_, hips parallel tae the wall!" she ascended as far as the red line. This was the highest anyone was allowed to go without a rope due to the absorption factor of the crash-pads, but she was securely trussed into a harness. Uhura got the feeling from her tutor that he would never allow her to free-climb, and she was mighty relieved. When Uhura reached the shoulder-height line, Ada released her to the deck and the engineer, witnessing her shaking, cramped fingers, untied her knots.

"Aye, _the wounding cords that bind and strain the human heart until it bleeds_."

Uhura froze. "Where did you hear that, Scotty?"

"Eh, dunno, at school I reckon. It's Tennyson."

"You didn't hear it on the ship?"

"Whit de ye mean?"

"I thought I heard someone reciting poetry on the ship."

"Where aboots?"

"Ah, I can't remember, perhaps on the Sick-deck?"

"Aye, well, I dinnae go there much so I wouldn't know about that."

"So you've not heard it?"

"No."

"Did Newt like poetry?" Uhura tried to sound casual, but Scotty was not easily taken in.

He sighed the patient sigh of a parent dealing with a trying child, and spoke with tight exasperation; "Not that I know of, she was more intae music. Are you all right lass? D' ye feel unwell? If you want to know about Newt, Charlie might tell ye, but she was right cut-up about her death. I'd leave it for a bit."

"I'm fine, Scotty; forget it." She never mentioned the poetry to him again.

The swish of the hangar-deck door alerted the instructor and his pupil to new arrivals. Hawkins strode forward in perfect sync with another man who was stockier and shorter, although next to the Cabin Boy's rangy frame most men would look that way.

Scotty nodded, "Captain."

"Commander Scott ... And this must be our miracle woman. Glad to finally make your acquaintance, Uhura. I'm afraid Bones has banned me from Sick-deck."

James T. Kirk. Even his name had the ring of importance. The dividing initial signified that this wasn't any old Jim, but captain of a starship and protector of his crew. A man wily of mind and solid of body; this Kirk was the same man, but different. His face was just a little more ruddy, his eyes just a little more bright, and his midsection just a little more trim. A close-clipped beard, golden and slightly curling, fringed his chin and he wore a thick, gold ring in one ear. His eyes were the same hazel, focused on Uhura like a laser so that she felt the most important person in his world, causing a girlish pleasure to course through her veins.

This man could inspire a walk through the valley of the shadow of death, and his charges would be proud and flattered that he took them there. Uhura stood to attention, hands along her trouser seams, all the better to prevent herself from throwing her arms about him in a fierce hug, so warm was his gaze. At once she understood the phrase "separate the men from the boys." Others, on meeting her, had been stalled, shocked, staring, stuttering, or just plain horrified. Here was a man who had seen much, listened, observed and learned. His innate diplomacy was making their meeting as normal as a bump-into at a Starfleet Christmas party, and she was pitifully grateful. After five years under Kirk's command, Uhura's accidental journey into a new universe helped her understand one simple fact. People thought Captain Kirk was "on top of his crew," but in reality he was the foundation that held them up.

"How's my Chief Engineer been treating you?"

"You have the best Chief Engineer in Starfleet, sir. In any universe."

"I know that, Able Starman," Kirk smiled. "I chose him."

After a moment the engineer asked, "Might we officers invite ye tae come for dinner this week in the Ward Room?"

"That'd be very good, Scotty. Hawkins will clear my diary."

As Uhura walked toward her quarters with Scotty, she asked about his formal dinner invitation to the captain.

"It's an old naval tradition; the captain can only dine with the officers at their invitation. Ye'll enjoy it. Ye get tae wear a dress – if ye like. Charlie would give me a slapping for sayin' aboot a dress; I dinnae think she has one. She can help ye get stuff ... Ach, I'm diggin' a hole here, wear whit ye like. It'll be formal, so your uniform is fine. God, I'm rubbish at this; sorry."

At her door, Uhura leaned towards Scotty and gave him a swift kiss on the cheek. "Scotty, Charlie is a lucky woman."

"Aye, and I'm a luckier man."

* * *

Some days later, Uhura sat at a holo-mirror wearing a sea-green silk dress. It sat off the shoulders, with puffed sleeves to her elbows, and fell straight, skimming her form to her ankles. It had a slight bustle at the back, reminiscent of the Edwardian style. Charlene had tried to get her into something a bit more outrageous, but Uhura didn't want to draw attention to herself. Her status as the magically resurrected communications officer was bringing enough stares as she gradually found her shape and her skin improved. On her desk sat a welcome gift, conveyed by Hawkins from the captain: a black velvet box containing two gold hoop earrings. Each was threaded with a single iridescent raven's wing pearl. Plain and heavy, they were just the kind of beautiful, understated gift the captain would give, and Uhura sat staring at them, feeling shaky and sick.

The holes in her earlobes were gone. Not healed over; _gone_ – as if they had never been there. At Starfleet Academy she had not worn earrings for months on end, but the holes were always there; sometimes difficult to thread at first, but manageable eventually. With trembling hands, she brought her fingers up to the left shoulder of her dress, and pulled it aside millimetre by millimetre, dreading what she would see beneath. Sweat pricked on her upper lip and she closed her eyes tight, afraid to look as she swiveled to face the mirror. Eventually she took a peek. Smooth, evenly-toned skin covered her upper arm.

At twelve, Nyota Uhura was a tomboy; playing with boys, climbing trees, getting on unstable hoverboards, and jumping into rivers and pools without checking the depth of the water. Her mother, ever mindful of relatives', neighbours', friends' and the President of The United States of Africa's opinion of her family, was not amused. After one escapade ended in a badly cut arm, M'Umbha Uhura raged. "See now? What did I say? What would our president be thinking if she saw you scrambling over the rocks like a common _mjusi_!"

It was memory misted over, her mother, affronted, comparing her with a lizard, and marching her to the local clinic for the wound to be closed. In a fit of pique or – more likely – to teach her feral daughter a lesson about the imperilment of one's appearance, bibi Uhura refused to have the scar erased. In any event, the lesson was water off a duck's back, as young Uhura's eventual career allowed for both danger and some vanity. After all the drama, the mark had been tiny; an occasional reminder of M'umbha's force of will, and something to tell new friends about. Now it too was gone.

At fourteen, Nyota Uhura rejected her grandmother's offer to pierce her ears. It wasn't cool or modern to be getting your ears pierced by family. Nyota and her best friend Lily went to an outrageous salon in the heart of a flashy part of Nairobi. They had their ears done amongst shiny women who pretended not to be looking for the next big thing.

"Ada, is this cabin sound-proof?"

"Affirmative."

Uhura rose, banged both fists down hard on the desk and screamed. "_Damn_ you stupid universe! You took my friends, faded my memories and now you've wiped my stories from my own _body!_"

Straightening, she looked in the mirror at her bare ears and neck. This would not do, this would not do at all.

* * *

Done up for a formal dinner, the Ward Room was a sight to see. Plumes of purple orchid-like flowers grew from the centre of the long table, covered in damask cloth. White and gold china plates shone in the warm light from a pair of brass candelabra, heavy-based and made in imitation of Grecian vases. Tall flutes of aubergine glass gave the jolly impression of a Christmas meal. The entire table glowed, and standing at its head with an expression of calm was Hawkins, polishing silverware to a glow with a soft linen cloth.

"It's yourself, Ma'am, you are looking most fine tonight."

"Why thank you Hawkins; I came to find you, and here you are. I was looking for you to ask if you know where I could borrow some jewellery." Unwilling to go into her concerns about her body, Uhura thought to tell a white lie. "I'm afraid my ears are not pierced, but I'd really like to get them done. The Captain's gift is so beautiful."

Long, pale fingers gently set down a fork and the cloth, and the cabin boy looked Uhura up and down with the skill of a practised stylist. He walked round the table and plucked a single flower from the centrepiece, stripped the lower foliage and discarded it back into the vase.

"May I?" He leaned in towards her and she nodded her assent. Nimble fingers threaded the bare stem gently through her hair, leaving one bloom resting above her ear. "Forgive me Ma'am, but I'm thinking you don't need jewels. Your eyes, they shine like diamonds."

"You're a blarney-merchant, Hawkins," Uhura laughed. "I'm old enough to be your mother, you scoundrel!"

"A good Irish boy would want his mam to go out looking beautiful, wouldn't he now?"

As Uhura tried to think of a rebuttal, they were disturbed by the spectre of Mister Spock's appearance in the passageway.

"Miss Uhura, I should like to speak with you in private."

Hawkins raised an eyebrow in sarcastic query; Uhura was tickled. "Hawkins, sweetie, you look just like your father when you do that." Spock was clearly confused.

"Do you know the boy's father?"

"Yes sir, I have worked with his counterpart in my universe. Shall we use my cabin?"

"That would be satisfactory."

They stepped into her quarters followed by Hawkins' gaze. Uhura couldn't blame him for his curiosity. A knowledge of the inner workings of the ship and her crew were probably written into his job description. Ready for a fight, or at least a spirited defence of whatever she was being accused of, Uhura drew her shoulders back and faced the commander foursquare. Her chin rose and her hands clasped at her back as if awaiting a court martial.

"Sir."

"Able Starman, I would like to express regret at my judgement of your behaviour last week. I was not in possession of the full facts. You were not culpable."

_Was that an apology? __Do__ Vulcans apologise? _Nyota merely nodded, intending to dismiss him with an "if that's all Sir..." but the words stuck in her throat. His expression and a slight difference in his posture thrust a memory back to her in vivid colour. _Enterprise _Spock, attacked by a Denevan parasite that had entwined itself around his nervous system so invasively that even Doctor McCoy couldn't disentangle it. The first officer had returned to the bridge despite acute pain, to discharge his normal duties.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Granted."

"You're in pain. I'm sorry." For a second she thought he was going to lie. _Vulcans can't lie? What a crock._

"I assure you, it is minor." _Vulcans lied all right._

Uncomfortable silence fell like damp, coastal fog about them, until it was broken by the first officer. "I am exceedingly impressed by your scores on the computing tests. Doctor Noel is anxious that we find employment for you, and I concur. I would like to propose further tutoring. I am on first watch for the next three weeks. Would you be willing to undertake an hour of computer instruction beginning at sixteen hundred hours each weekday?

"Yes sir, I look forward to learning more about the main computer, Babbage, and Ada." The commander bowed his formal bow and, as he left, Nyota heard a voice wash over her like warm, dry fingers on her skin.

_All__ that's best of dark and bright meets in her aspect and her eyes._

"Sir?"

"Able Starman?"

"You said something?"

"No, Uhura."

Nyota was frustrated: these voices were not in her head, that much she knew. "I'll see you at dinner, sir."

"Very well."

After his departure, she reflected on his offer of instruction and was gladdened. In order to become the best computer hacker in Starfleet, one would need the best teacher. Answers to her questions about this secretive ship would be within a securely-walled Babbage, and Able Starman Uhura needed the skills to put a sledgehammer through those walls.

- End part 9 -


	11. Part 10: And from her lips

**A/N: **Thanks as always to chapter wranglers LadyFangs and TeaOli. Shout out to my beta SpockLikesCats, whose wonderful descriptions of real Dinings-In must give her a joint author credit on this chapter at the very least. I tweak after, I own nothing and I profit not.

* * *

**Part**** 10 – ****And ****from ****her ****lips****, ****as ****morn ****from**** Memnon****, ****drew ****rivers ****of ****melodies**

What can you do when your small talk is awkward, when you see your companions viewing your reanimated corpse in quick glances? When the elephant in the room is you, do you charge? Or do you stoop down, with long lowered lashes?

Uhura decided to do neither; her primary objective was observation.

Seating arrangements at the ward-room dinner were not as she had expected, although the captain was at the head of the table. At his right hand sat Hawkins, a position she thought would be reserved for Commander Spock. To the captain's left – opposite Hawkins – was Helen Noel, poised and stunning in deep-red velvet.

An inscrutable Chekov sat with Lieutenant Palmer; who was as icy as a morning on Delta-Vega until she discovered Uhura had no designs on her job. To Palmer's left were M'Benga, McCoy and Commander Spock, the first officer opposite his captain. Christine was on duty to relieve Sanchez, sitting to the commander's left.

The group was completed by Masters, Kyle and Uhura herself, who sat next to the cabin boy. True to Scotty's prediction, his wife was dressed in an outfit similar to her on-duty one, but jet-black, with a shirt of satin, and ruby waistcoat buttons. As the engineer sat, Uhura admired her dress boots that ended on the thigh, and their six-inch spike heels.

"No Scotty?"

"Nope, I'm mad! Some stupid ordinary starman put her hand where she shouldn't have and now she's at the Sick-deck, and Scotty has to do a few extra hours. He might make it in time for the port."

With the dimmed lights, fine china and damask, it was easy for Uhura to believe they were not aboard a ship at all. They may have been in a Victorian dress-up dream where her friends were like, but unlike, themselves. A flash of a familiar mannerism or inflection frequently caught her off-guard and she was glad of Hawkins. He was a brightly-lit presence in this murky reality, with no connection to her past, a shiny new penny. His heraldic appearance reinforced his role as a protector of sorts.

Chatter was finally flowing at most of the table, but the _Alpha _crew were far too well-mannered to interrogate Uhura about her bizarre materialisation; this was a public event. With Masters talking to Kyle, and the Captain engrossed in conversation with Doctor Noel – many things were the same – Uhura leaned towards Hawkins.

"So what's your story, Hawkins? How old are you?"

"I'm seventeen, Ma'am. I come from County Cork."

"How did you get on this ship?"

"I beamed aboard, Ma'am."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it."

"I went off the rails a few years ago, me an' my brother. He got packed off to Starfleet, and I was too young, so I came here to learn to be a cabin boy."

"You couldn't have been so bad, if they gave you the _Alpha_, and Captain Kirk."

"Oh, I was Ma'am, that's _why_ I came here. D' you know what the first job I had on board was? You've seen those brass portholes in each cabin?" Uhura nodded. "I had to polish every one until my hands were numb. Four-hundred and thirty-six of the buggers – pardon me – and guess what the Captain said when I was done?"

"What?"

"Very good, Hawkins. They aren't real brass of course, and they're self-cleaning. Maybe this will teach you to take an interest in the ship's manuals in future."

The boy steepled his fingers. "Now _that__'__s_ why he's the Captain."

Uhura let out a low whistle. "But look at you now, I can see _you_ ordering the next cabin boy about."

"Perhaps."

A white-uniformed steward appeared. Gloved and stiff-backed, she held a lacquered Chinese tray laden with several bottles of wine, one already uncorked. Her shining, close-combed head inclined towards the Captain in delicate query.

"I believe Hawkins will do the honours, Steward, the Doctor is, for once, excused." The girl bent and placed the tray on the damask, avoiding the silverware, and poured a sparse measure into a clear crystal goblet at Hawkins' place-setting. He raised the heavy glass to his eyes, examining the colour in faint candle-light. A tiny flick of his wrist caused wine to swirl about the glass in a miniature wave. Lowering the drink he bent his head and nosed the wine with feline grace, finally taking a careful draught while sucking air past bloodless lips. The whole table watched the ritual in silence, so serious was the boy's countenance. Seconds passed as Hawkins sat with closed eyes, until he beamed a wide smile.

"I pronounce this wine fit for consumption, and fine 'tis too!" A roar went about the table; the diners cheering and clapping. Another steward materialised and all glasses were generously charged. This dinner seemed to have two very firm objectives - get friendly, and get sozzled. Everything seemed to be in honour of someone. The first course was collard greens and corn bread , introduced by the Captain _in __honour __of __our __esteemed __Ship__'__s __surgeon_, whereupon another cheer went up.

Two stewards were required to guide in the main course, a corpse so gargantuan it was taken to the table on a hover-gurney, accompanied by whoops and shouts, and triggered a flurry of activity to clear the centrepiece. At the head of the table, the captain looked sheepish, shielding his eyes in feigned embarrassment. A grotesque, hard-shelled creature similar to an armadillo crouched, aflame, on a silver dish which Hawkins approached with trepidation. When the flames died, he snapped off a piece of shell, crunched it slowly and, once again, took several seconds to speak: "I pronounce this creature fit for consumption - a toast to its sacrifice! Poor Sparky, he served his captain well."

Glasses were raised and clinked to "Sparky" as Uhura looked on askance at the new development. To her discomfort, giggles spread around the crew. Before she could question the revolting repast, a steward leaned over, hooked her small hand beneath the scales on the animal's back and lifted the shell clean off, and clear of the table. Beneath lay an array of small dishes; the beast was an illusion. Sensing her confusion, Kyle shifted closer to Uhura. "It's just pastry – the shell. A bit of a joke at the Captain's expense, no doubt you'll hear about it during the port. You might want to mention the sand bats of Manark IV – or maybe not." His eyes were mischievous.

From her vantage point near the head of the table, and being diagonally opposite McCoy, Uhura viewed the unlikely interaction between the Chief Surgeon and the Commander. Fussing like a mother hen, McCoy appeared to be encouraging Mister Spock to eat, his brows lowered in concern. The First Officer acted testy and exasperated with his friend, talking quietly with a bent head. They were in their own underwater bubble, flanked either side by more medical staff. The Captain joked that the unconventional seating arrangement was made in order to have all the ladies at his end, but Uhura saw clearly that it had the effect of clustering the medical staff at one end, in a clique.

By dessert – a teetering, wobbly confection fizzing with tiny indoor fireworks – Mister Spock rose and held a glass of red wine aloft, a child's plaything in his hand. His customary stooped posture was pronounced and self-conscious. He ran a finger along the high collar of his jacket; a gesture so familiar that Uhura's hand stuttered in its travel to her own glass. "I should like to pronounce a toast to our captain. I give you James T. Kirk, captain of the _Alpha__." _The party arose and toasted the captain, who lifted his hands in that familiar Kirk silencing stance.

"Thank you Mister Spock. Now – dessert."

The first officer declared he was retiring due to pressing experiments in the lab. He grasped McCoy's shoulder in a warm gesture as he passed by his chair and a brief spark of query passed from the captain to the doctor, across the expanse of table.

As plates were cleared away, Uhura was astounded to see Masters spark up a stogie, and the captain light what looked like a small clay pipe. Bulbous decanters of port and rum appeared by sleight of hand, along with weighty, flat-bottomed ship's glasses. Chekov leaned across the table to Uhura and addressed her for the first time that night:

"Who are you? Really?"

Palmer and Noel looked at the Russian in mortification; only the ship's air circulators could be heard in the silence that descended on the gathering. Uhura became the focus for everyone's gaze and the room stopped breathing. A surprise ally jumped down the Russian boy's throat.

"She's Lieutenant Uhura of the USS Enterprise, NCC-1701, you young jackass! Identical to our Uhura in every way. I personally oversaw her genetic analysis myself. Are you doubting your chief surgeon now?"

"You must admit it is _feeshy_."

"It's damned unusual, but not fishy. Keep your fool thoughts to yourself, starman."

Kirk intervened, "Chekov, that's enough. There'll be no more rumours on this ship. This is an informal dinner and we are all here to enjoy ourselves."

His choice of wording was interesting, no _more _rumours. Masters would tell her, she was sure. The moment over, the crew moved on to discussions (and toasts) of spectacular success and failure. It was interesting to see how many events had occurred in each universe: the Gorn, Nomad – an event Uhura had tried to push to the back of her mind – and the terrible tribbles had all been inflicted on this crew. Wiping a tear at the recollection of the captain waist-deep in trilling fuzzballs she cleared her throat, and said in her best Scotty accent:

"I beamed the whole kit an' caboodle into their engine room – where they'll be nae tribble at all!"

Hilarity again ensued and Kyle proposed a toast to Scotty and Sulu, both stuck on duty, "Absent friends!"

Finally Uhura plucked up the courage to ask about "Sparky"; M'Benga was the first to answer.

"Mister Spock tells this story much better – he is so serious, and he uses such formal words. The captain and the XO and I were on a mission to Manark IV and this little animal, a Manarkian Zaedyus, was following the captain about like a puppy, everywhere he went. He was very loyal. We took readings from him, and I even have some pictures. On the second last day, a sand-bat tried to attack the captain, and the little guy jumped up and got the full force of the sand-bat sting on his soft underbelly. It is like an electrocution. At least it was quick."

"And you _ate_ him?" More laughter.

"No, do you think we are barbarians in this Universe?" His eyes grew wide and he asked, "Would _your _people have eaten the poor thing?"

"No, no, I just thought..."

M'Benga shook his head, eyes to the ceiling.

"Please, doctor, go on, I'm sorry."

"Mister Spock made a grave for him with his phaser, and we buried him. He is an honorary red-jacket now, a member of the security team."

Yet another toast went up to _poor_ _Sparky_, and Doctor McCoy, becoming more animated as the rum flowed, called for hush.

"Of course, our first officer's account was somewhat different. He declared that: _'__The __creature__, __of__ the __genus __dasypus__, __appears __to __have __imprinted __on __the __captain__, __forming __a__ biological__ attachment__. __It__ sees __itself __as __the __captain__'__s __protector__'_. The funny thing is, that Spock could have been describing himself."

The atmosphere changed; people shifted uncomfortably. McCoy, perhaps realising he had gone too far and it wasn't funny, hastily raised his glass. "To Commander Spock, the finest first officer in the fleet."

Assent burbled around the table, and talk of daring and foolhardy missions continued until the captain rose from his chair.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to propose a toast: to the crew of the starship _Enterprise __Alpha__, _the finest in the Federation." When the cheering stopped, he looked to Uhura. "Able Starman Uhura, welcome aboard." It was affirmation of her integration, in front of his crew.

The night continued after the captain's departure. Uhura and Kyle commiserated with Masters on Scotty's no-show. Chekov left and Palmer sidled round to speak to Sanchez. Doctor Noel excused herself hot on the heels of the captain, and M'Benga and McCoy moved up the table, insinuating a decanter of rum between them. Being the most sober, Uhura, Masters and Hawkins were the last to leave, but finally the boy summoned the stewards and everyone said their good-nights.

* * *

As soon as the door of her cabin closed, she was transported from the warmth and soft sparkle of the ward-room to a chill, lonely place. The lights were over-bright and she asked Ada to lower them. A presence hung in the air like dew-covered cobwebs, and each time she stumbled into it she felt her mind jerk and trying to brush the foul threads away.

Descending to her bunk, she turned the inside of her wrist toward her and ran two fingers along the skin. It was as smooth as the skin of a child. Her nails and hair had grown rapidly after her discharge from Sick-deck, but now were slowed to a more natural rate. Uhura was reminded of old wives' tales of the hair and skin of corpses growing in their caskets. She was a corpse, of sorts, wandering the halls, a displaced soul.

Was she really Uhura? What remained of her body? When they removed her survival suit, what was beneath? McCoy's voice drifted by, "All her systems are on bypass," and an image of a woman, horribly burned on a bio-bed, accompanied his words. She rose to remove her dress.

Uhura had managed barely a few steps when she telescoped vertically to the deck, her skirts bunching tightly about her knees. Like a shackled prisoner she knelt, pushed down by the forceful hand of an unseen executioner.

_I __watch __thee __from__ the __quiet __shore__..._

Bewilderment and terror pumped through her veins, her blood like ice-water, and she shivered, despite the supposed temperature of her room. In instinct, she tried to protect herself, curling into a foetal ball and rolling onto her side.

Monstrous sorrow rolled over her in waves. Unbidden, she sang a Swahili song of loss, the ground-water of its words seeping up into her consciousness after decades hidden beneath.

In the background she sensed the swish of the door. Black boots hovered into view and a knee dropped to the deck as Commander Spock's long arms grasped her fragile form and gathered her up onto the bunk.

"I'm sorry sir, I'm so very cold." Nyota burrowed into heat as Commander Spock rubbed her arms, simultaneously stilling the shaking and imparting a small amount of warmth into her chilled carcass.

"It will become easier; sleep now." His hand brushed her temple and the twitching in her muscles diminished. "I will stay here in the chair ... do not be afraid. I will be with you."

In the morning, he was gone. On the desk by her bed sat the violet doll, and the flower which had fallen from her hair. It was crumpled, but alive.

* * *

– **End**** Part**** 10 –**


	12. Part 11: A shining child

**A/N: **Thanks as always to chapter wranglers LadyFangs and TeaOli. Big thanks to my wonderful beta SpockLikesCats. I tweak after, I own nothing and I profit not.

Thank you to all my lovely readers, I am so grateful to those who take the time to review; your reviews in my mailbox give me a warm glow. And for those who faved this story, thanks to you all.

Word of the day: **Ebullism** - the formation of gas bubbles in bodily fluids due to reduced environmental pressure. This is what happens to folks who are subjected to the vacuum of space without a suit.

* * *

**Part 11 – A shining child, dreaming alone**

Computing class had taken place, for the first two weeks, in her own quarters. Now Spock had moved the location to his rooms, declaring it "more discreet."

It seemed he was not immune to rumour either, especially since his nocturnal visits had increased in frequency after Nyota's baffling metabolic disturbance. During the day she felt fine, but at night the cold chilled her bones and, despite being bundled in thermo-blankets like a burrito, the only relief came from the bond she shared with the first officer. Unable to find a medical explanation, McCoy huffed, stern and taciturn, "Thyroid: normal, pituitary: normal, TSH levels: normal, hypothalamic neurons: normal. Perhaps the hobgoblin can help you," and so the strange visits became medically sanctioned.

His touch warmed her; he sat in the chair 'till she slept, and he was always gone in the morning. It seemed as though he were two people – kind and gentle at night, professional and professorial during the day.

Night visits were not a subject to be discussed by daytime.

He offered her tea after the lesson. His cabin was large, and had the black-and-white tiled floor of the ward room. Mullioned windows bowed out along one wall, showcasing inky black space and constellations. Paintings of Vulcan hung above a couch, and on a small side-table sat brass antiques: a chronometer and a small, clockwork planetarium.

"Was she your friend?" Nyota was continuing the Sisyphean task of getting the commander to talk about anything unconnected to work. She pointed to the smaller of two Vulcan lyres hanging on his wall. "May I look at it?"

"I have never understood the propensity of human females to ask successive questions without waiting for answers. Yes, she was my friend, and of course, you may look at it."

Nyota unhooked the instrument and positioned it on her knee.

"Why did they call her _Newt_?"

"She was unusually adept at climbing, scaling the wall in 11.92 seconds, a ship's record. Mister Scott also deemed her an escapologist, due to her skill at remaining unscathed through many missions. Newts are excellent climbers and escapologists, and the phonics echo her name."

"What did she look like?"

Spock gave an almost inaudible sigh, lifted a Padd from his desk and moved his digits swiftly over its surface. He pinched his fingers together like gathering gossamer, then flicked his hand as if to shake off water. A small holopic was cast out before them; the woman was so sartorially different from Nyota that it took a few seconds for her to see herself in the face.

She had expected the commander to offer a verbal description, not an actual image, and her breath stopped. Newt wore command britches and boots, her long braided hair half-piled on her head and brightly threaded with beads. A white tank and suspenders completed her clothing. Each ear was pierced many times and hung with small gold hoops. She looked more like Ayan than Nyota, slimmer in the face and smiling broadly. The ghost of her sister's shape on this woman was disturbing. Spock swept the image away, speaking softly.

"Ada is able to show you more images; you need only ask."

Uhura nodded, biting her bottom lip. "Why did you save me, Mister Spock? You fought for it; I heard Doctor McCoy arguing with you."

"The doctor had his reasons, and they were sound. It was a risk."

"So, why? Why did you do it?"

"I thought it a cruel situation that the universe should take you twice."

"What happens on this ship?"

"Specify."

"The poetry I hear … the look in your eyes … the look of the whole medical team?" Nyota thought of the distracted, tired expressions on their faces.

He stood, dismissing her, and she laid the small lyre on the desk.

"Please look at the exercises we went over this evening before training tomorrow."

Once more, as with many interactions with the commander, Uhura found herself on one side of a door, him on the other, barely understanding how they'd ended up this way.

* * *

Back in her own quarters, Uhura utilised Ada to scavenge the carrion of dead red-coats, looking to pick the bones of a sufficiently high security clearance. Once she found a man of sufficient rank, it was a simple matter to re-activate his passkey, replicate the clearance settings and create her own log-in so that she could peer into her medical records.

Babbage's interior directory structure was a thing of beauty; as she gained access, a narrow-paned holo-window opened in front of her, and she found she was peering into the corridor of a large Victorian mansion lined with heavy teak doors inscribed with gold calligraphy. Arriving at a door marked "Surgeon and Apothecary", she requested it to open and was transported to a dark room lined with four hundred thirty small drawers, similar to those in an old store. Each was marked with the serial number of a crew-member written on parchment and contained within a small brass frame, and the drawer-fronts glittered with faceted crystal handles.

"Babbage, open drawer for Nyota Uhura."

An aged, male, English voice rang out from the artificial room's interior. "Please clarify: she who is living, or she who lies dead?"

Of course, there were records for two of her. "She who is living." A drawer at the highest level slid open and words tumbled out to display in the window she sat at.

What she saw there was bewildering.

Name: Nyota Penda Uhura

Species: Homo sapiens: Inter-species genetic modification (asteroidea)

Case notes: Security clearance insufficient

Uhura took in great, gulping breaths, steadying herself on the edge of her desk. She knew she had undergone gene therapy, but seeing it written down before her made it real, no longer an abstract concept. "Babbage, what is _asteroidea_?"

"Asteroidea – phylum echinodermata, class sea-stars."

"Please explain in plain language."

"Asteroidea – starfish."

She was out of her cabin and down in the turbolift to Sick-deck before she could even think about where she was going. Barging into the doctor's office she was astounded to find McCoy there, with Chapel. Uhura vaulted the desk like a gymnast, grabbed the doctor by the braid on his coat, shaking him, and screamed right in his face:

"What am I? What _am _I? What have you done to me? I'm not leaving until you tell me!" She trembled with rage, tears had long left her, and McCoy untangled her fingers from his jacket, taking her hands in his for a short time. He sat heavily in his chair, gesturing her to sit as Chapel looked in sympathy to Uhura and retreated from the room.

McCoy scrubbed his scalp with his knuckles, causing his hair to stand up. Dark half-moons cradled his eyes and five o' clock shadow clung to his chin like barnacles.

"You were almost beyond repair, smashed and tossed about your cutter in a torn suit, hypoxic - lungs full of blood - seconds away from full-on ebullism … and catastrophic organ failure. Your brain didn't seem so bad. We put you on bypass and waited to see if your system would repair itself, lowered your temperature to assist your healing. Nothing worked. Spock applied for you to receive gene therapy. Starfleet discovered a starfish on Orion – _asteroidea Orianna_ – with unbelievable regenerative powers. We introduced the relevant gene into you via a pneumonia virus, and waited while you repaired." The ship's surgeon paused, gazing into her eyes, finally unburdened.

Uhura could barely breathe enough to speak. Her hand went to her chest as if willing it to move in and out. "Am I... fully human?"

"As human as I am."

"Pneumonia, that's why I thought I was drowning ..."

"We flooded your lungs. It was the only way, sweetheart, but a horrible strain on your psyche. The lungs are the most efficient route for a virus to enter the body and we were desperate. Time was running out and it was the quickest method. Your blood was being externally oxygenated."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It was classified, and you don't have the clearance. Now that I think about it, it wasn't the best decision. I'm truly sorry. Our damned hands were tied by Starfleet Medical, who aren't covering themselves in glory just now."

Uhura scrutinised her hands again, turning them over and over, looking at the surface of each nail beneath the sick-deck lights, searching for flaws. She examined the transition from keratin to skin along each cuticle. They were perfect. "Will I have any after-effects?"

"You'll get stronger than normal; your muscles need less recovery time so you can train harder. A simple cut or fracture will heal quickly and I suspect you'll have an enhanced lifespan, but it's not possible to know just yet. I think you're past the danger zone."

"But you didn't want me to be fixed?"

"I didn't want you thinking you'd a chance of life, only for it to get snatched away. And I didn't want Spock to get his hopes up. He lost you – her – before. I'm convinced he thought bringing you back was some kind of atonement for not sending some marines on her last mission, although the creature would probably have killed them too. Your body went through a lot. I thought it was cruelty. And no matter what he thinks, it was a huge mental trial for you. You won't remember, but I'm sure about that."

"What was she to him?"

"A friend, but Spock doesn't wear his friendships lightly. He admired her mind, and her dedication. Trust Spock to admire a beautiful, sparky gal for her brains! I sometimes think he has green ice-water running through his veins." McCoy smiled at her, and for the first time since she'd met him she finally saw the man behind the wall. Her heart rose up and she grabbed him in a fierce hug.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"I'm sorry we kept you in the dark."

"The cold at night – is my body remembering my lowered temperature?"

"Perhaps, or maybe it's psycho-somatic."

Uhura left the doctor to his thoughts. She felt weighed down and light at the same time.

Arriving slightly early for her lesson the following day – and pretending to herself she wasn't doing it to see how Spock would react – Nyota was startled to see him open the door wearing some rather odd goggles, or a goggle. A leather strap fitted diagonally across his head, the circle of it broken by one alarming magnifying lens set in a silver mount. She had barely glimpsed his one large eye when he whipped the goggles off, causing one side of his hair to stick up in a charming manner, away from his forehead.

"You are early, Miss Uhura. Is this due to an over-exuberance for the subject, or merely a ploy to catch me in a state of inadequate preparation?" An eyebrow rose, comically pointing towards his errant bangs. Unable to keep her face straight, Uhura let out an explosive laugh. The eyebrow's twin rose in double confusion.

"I'm sorry sir, allow me." Her hand rose and smoothed his hair back into its customary fashion, feeling the silk of it between her fingers, and the heat of his dry skin. The guilty hand stopped of its own volition, and she realised she was stroking the commander's hair, and he had done nothing to move away from her. The pair of them straightened and exchanged a glance as if they had thought themselves in a dream, but in fact had come out in public without their trousers.

Spock cleared his throat, ran a finger along his shirt collar and offered a croaky "Enter."

On his desk lay a spread-out roll of black velvet covered in tiny jeweller's tools, and beside them, some sort of brass contraption made from cogs and springs.

"What is that sir?"

"It is a replica of an eighteenth century ship's chronometer. I am assembling it from parts machined by Mister Scott."

"It's very delicate work, sir."

"Extremely, but I find it calming, when I am ..." he tailed off, "in need of calm."

His hands slid the instruments with precision into small pockets in the square of fabric, rolled it up, tied it with black ribbons and slid it into the desk drawer. Nyota was entranced by the movements, and no doubt appeared glazed when he called her back to the present.

"Shall we begin?"

After the lesson they took their customary tea. In his own surroundings Spock was different, more relaxed. Sitting in his chair with knees apart, supple boot ankles crossed and shoulders loose, he invited another question, or so she thought. Once more, she wandered about his room, stopping at a small shelf of books. "_Enterprise _Spock always enjoyed poetry." She ran her fingers along spines, Byron, Dickinson, Keats, Whitman, Yeats, approving of the alphabetical order. "These books are very old, hundreds of years."

"Affirmative. They are not my collection, however; they were bequeathed to me."

His eyes were so sad that she declined to ask the origin of the bequest. "What is your favourite poem sir?"

Long limbs leaned further back in the chair and the commander gazed into the middle distance. "It is not in that physical collection." He hesitated, "Would you like to hear it?" When she nodded, he continued in dignified tones:

"Here dead we lie because we did not choose

To live and shame the land from which we sprung.

Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose,

But young men think it is, and we were young."

Looking to an undefined spot on the deck, he coughed. "It is reminiscent of the young Vulcans who gave their lives away before Surak."

She moved on cat-feet to his chair. "A. E. Housman. I can see why a pacifist would choose him. And it has an elegance of brevity." Spock looked up, stripped bare to her and flayed of his hide. She had taken his help, his patronage and his nights, and he was wearied; his linen shirt crumpled, its open neck revealing a fine curl of dark hair. In a dream, she leaned down and kissed him on the mouth, pushing him into the chair, possessed in her need to be nearer to him, to his warmth, his intellect, his _protection, _his_ regard. _Strong arms moved around her waist and he pressed back into her, the heat of his mouth a beautiful branding. Gently, he disengaged himself and pulled her down to kneel at his chair.

"I can't."

"I'm sorry, I mis-read ... I'm so sorry." _Stop blabbering, Nyota. _Her words clanged at her feet.

To her shame, a tear fell. His hand rose, and he brushed it away, momentarily cupping her face.

"I have a responsibility to this ship, to the crew. I am what I am, Nyota, and if there are self-made purgatories, mine can be no worse than someone else's."

Standing to leave, she rubbed the back of her hand over her face, like an over-tired toddler. All thoughts were focused on his door. _Get out, get out._

"Please, do not distress yourself, we shall not speak of it."

She pressed the door-plate and didn't look back. _He in his small corner, and me in mine._

A rudderless craft, she wandered the halls of the ship, finally coming to rest outside Sick-deck. Grasping the sleeve of her over-shirt in her palm, she used it to dab at her face in an effort to look more like a proper able starman. The sick-deck doors parted for her and she was dismayed to find the office empty. Tugged by an invisible line she blundered to the back of the main ward, and through the door to the store room, where many weeks before, Christine had emerged with a brace for Uhura's cracked wrist.

_And cruel love, whose end is scorn, is this the end? To be left alone? To live forgotten and die forlorn?_

Almost blinded in the gloom, she stumbled through the stores, directed by an invisible guide. At the back of the room was a door. An old-fashioned submarine door, very thick and opened by a wide, iron wheel. She tried to turn it. For a few seconds she strained to no end, and then, jarring her thumb painfully, the wheel slid round. The door flew open into the room, and she fell into the space beyond, her thick-soled boots catching on the lip of the threshold.

Uhura crashed to the deck, her knees crunching and burning from their union with an ornate cast-iron drain-cover that ran around the perimeter of the room. Now on her hands and knees, badly winded and wheezing, she became aware of a pale, watery light flickering in the dim room. White, tiled walls reflected the swimming-pool light, and her face tilted up to be greeted by the light source; a coffin-sized tank, held together with riveted metal strips and balanced on sturdy metal columns, their faux-Grecian elegance belying their strength. A familiar _blub...blub...blub... _like the filter on a fish-tank resonated in the back of her skull.

Re-adjusting to the light, her stinging eyes made out the interior of the tank. Filled with fine, rusty vegetal strands, like bloodied, skeletal vines, it was difficult for her to perceive what was going on. Floating in the middle of the weed-like fronds was... something. Sitting back on her rear, Uhura shuffled closer to the tank and peered through the waving fibres. The violet-skinned being - that replaced her baby sister in her dream - was suspended in the fluid, and at last, she was able to study its features. It had a protuberant, child-like skull and the flat nasal bridge of a baby. Full lips and rounded cheeks served to increase its resemblance to a child, and wide-set eyes were fringed with lush black lashes. A nacreous sheen of trapped oxygen covered its smooth, plump flesh. Adult-sized, it seemed at peace, and for a few minutes she sat and watched, willing the pain in her knees to fade.

The being's head slowly turned, a spindly hand pressed against the glass and the eyes drifted open. Uhura heard clearly in her head:

_Nyota, what am I?_

She screamed and skittered back like a startled crab, her head connecting painfully with another metal structure. Disorientated, she looked round and saw another tank, full of pulsing fluid, but unlit and unoccupied. Swallowing bile, she looked into the creature's navy-blue eyes and saw only confusion, and the soul-penetrating gaze of an infant. Pulling herself on her backside, her knees too painful to straighten, she pressed her palm to the creature's.

"I'm sorry, I don't know."

A loud creak like a castle door caused her head to snap up. Bright light flooded the room and Uhura threw her forearm across her eyes.

"Uhura! What in tarnation are you doing here on the floor?" McCoy's arms hooked beneath her armpits and pulled her up. She stumbled and a soldier's dignity took hold. "Damage to my knees, sir!"

"God, girl, let me help you. And no more 'sir.' "

She tried to appear upright in his grasp. "What is this?"

"That, my dear, is _The Herald._ Has it been trying to contact you?"

Uhura's brain was far, far behind, but it finally caught on.

"I hear poetry … in my head."

"Then yes, its been trying to contact you."

* * *

- End part 11 -


	13. Part 12: The night is dreary

**A/N****: **Thanks as always to chapter wranglers LadyFangs and TeaOli, and to my patient beta, SpockLikesCats. I tweak after, I own nothing (except Hawkins/Eala) and I profit not.

Word of the day: **Numpty**. Scottish slang for idiot or fool, e.g. Ach, yon numpty filled the tank o' his petrol car with diesel.

* * *

**Part 12 - The night is dreary, he cometh not**

On a bio-bed on Sick-deck, lay a traumatised able starman in a short blue robe with a thermo-blanket draped over her mid-section, and a tissue generator hovering above her throbbing knees.

Brisk and efficient, the doctor barely spoke of what had just transpired, concerned with making her comfortable and examining the damage to her joints. "You're under there for an hour. Just pretend you're at the hairdresser, under the sonic-washer." Uhura rolled her eyes. "You wanna have me get you some Padd-mags? Coffee? Glass of port?" McCoy teased her, and she gave a wan smile. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

His footsteps diminished and she strained to hear him tussle with Nurse Chapel. "Where were you?"

"I told you, I was in the stores."

"That seems damned unlikely–what's going on here, Christine?"

"I didn't see her because she wasn't there." Chapel spoke through clenched teeth. "I'm _not _lying. Why would I lie? I came back to the office and then you went in there. Why did _you _go in? You never go there if you can help it."

A loud, exasperated sigh escaped from the chief surgeon, then silence. "I'm calling Spock."

A quarter-hour passed on the clock before someone came to check on her. It was the commander; intimidating in full uniform and carrying Nyota's cane like a noble escort to a night at the opera. He sat and fiddled with the stick, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger for so long that Nyota suspected he had brought it as a diversion for himself, not an aid for her.

"Nurse Chapel tells me she was in the store when you walked through."

"It's really badly lit, I didn't see her."

"Why do you believe she would be in the store in darkness?"

"I don't know! Looking for matches? How should I know?"

His dark eyes narrowed. "I do believe that both of you genuinely experienced what you claim to have experienced. What do you know of the creature in the tank?"

"I saw it before, during my treatment. I dreamed I was on the banks of the Athi, hugging my sister. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, my sister had turned into the violet creature." Nyota fixed on the tissue-generator, a floating arc that was improbably upholstered in ox-blood leather and sported a few brass dials. She knew she was being petulant, but the weight of secrecy on the ship pressed on her too.

"I was in the other tank, wasn't I?"

"Affirmative."

"I have a right to know what happened. It's my body. What is this _Herald_, and why does it know my name?" Glancing up, she saw the commander was looking down at the stick on his knee, and before she could stop herself, the most hateful words came spilling out, borne on a tide of fear and insecurity. "Why _did_ you save me? There are rumours on this ship that you and I are having an affair. Is that what you had with her? I'm just some inadequate replacement? Didn't turn out like you thought so you don't want me?" She watched his hands grip the stick, the knuckles turning chalk-white. Long, angular features turned up towards her, their expression like an Easter Island statue.

What was she turning into? A grasping, pathetic harpy, whining because she was gently spurned after the wholly inappropriate advances she had made to him, shaming herself at a time when she thought she was finally progressing. He leaned closer to her face, giving her the courtesy of speaking at a low volume – a courtesy she had not extended to him.

"When we brought you to sick-deck you were all but destroyed. However, you fought for life like no other being I have ever encountered. When I looked into the programs you wrote to test the cutter, I saw a spare elegance in them that only a person with fierce intelligence and an innate feel for computing technology could produce. I lobbied for your regeneration because I estimated you to be a person who would impress me a great deal, Miss Uhura. One-point-six minutes ago, I still believed this to be true." He stood and placed the cane against the bed. "Good day to you."

...

"What the hell happened?" McCoy took in Uhura's look of devastation and occupied the seat Mister Spock had vacated minutes before. The chief surgeon was not a stupid man. "Aww, don't you worry about the overgrown elf, he never did understand women. Everybody's under stress here. He'll forget about it in no time; he doesn't hold grudges. God knows Jim Kirk's tested him enough on that score."

"Mister Spock thinks Chapel and myself are both telling the truth about being in the store-room."

"I do too, and it's scaring the bejeezus out of me."

"What is the _Herald_?"

"It's a bio-engineered life-form designed to act as an ambassador of sorts during first contact missions. Non-threatening features, sexless, child-like, innocent...and empathic. Some Starfleet genetic genius decided we would have more successful missions if we didn't send folks who looked big and hairy. Better to send folks who looked cute and cuddly – on the outside. Do you know what they did? Starfleet marketing and PR went around to all the federation nations and held _focus groups_." He spat the words like threads of tobacco. "Can you damned well believe it?" Imitating the voice of an odious game-show host or oleaginous advertiser, he continued, " 'How would _you _have preferred your first contact being to look? We've got all styles here!' "

"...What a crock of shit. They didn't stop to think it was an actual life, and it might have feelings."

Thinking on this last statement, Uhura ventured, "It's sad; I feel it."

"Sad? It's downright despairing, and it's dragging every one of the medical team under like we're caught in an undertow. Its new trick tonight is perception alteration. Spock reckons it was able to alter what you and Christine saw in order to lure you into the tank-room, and open the door for you. This is a whole new ball game, Uhura, and if it becomes more powerful, this whole ship is royally scuttled."

"What will you do?"

Catching a thumbnail between his teeth, the doctor took in a long breath. "I don't have a clue."

"Why is it even on this ship?"

"Whaddaya think? Starfleet's hiding their dirty little experiment. They were so crafty about dressing the project up – 'genetic research for the benefit of all' – crap like that. They pulled the wool over our eyes. Before we knew what was happening, we were accessories to what Spock and I agree is a monstrous crime."

Uhura sank into the propped-up back of the bed, disquieted by the picture of her body floating in her own tank like the _Herald_, surrounded by the weed-like external blood-vessels and appearing to breathe underwater. But of course – it wasn't her tank.

"I was in the creature's spare tank." Uhura observed the doctor blanch as she stated the obvious. "Why would Starfleet allow that? If something had happened to its tank, would you have jettisoned me?"

McCoy aged ten years in ten seconds, his body sinking inside his stiff uniform. Uhura was reminded of a scarecrow in too-large clothing, with straw hair. It was apparent that his jacket was tailored for a more robust McCoy; this version was attenuated by stress.

"Spock and I discussed that. We decided it would be more logical to make the decision at the time. Emergency situations clarify the mind."

She wouldn't blame them: they had tried their best, she could be dead. "If you and Spock think it's a monstrous crime – what about Christine and M'Benga, and Sanchez? What do they think?"

In a gesture of self-protection, the doctor crossed his arms. "Spock and I are the only ones who really know what's going on, and even he only pieced the last parts of the puzzle together two days ago. I'm go – " he was interrupted by footsteps. Masters stood a few feet away, in polite parade stance and full uniform. McCoy stood, pushing the chair towards the engineer in a courtly gesture.

Long limbs folded into the chair. "Thanks Doc – how's Dopey?"

"Nothing another twenty minutes under the generator won't fix. I'll leave you ladies. You can take her back when I've cleared her."

"What did you do, girl? I thought you were getting better. I got a call from Hawkins saying you fell down and to collect you here."

Faking a smile, and mentally cursing her friend for her unwitting interruption, Uhura told a blithe lie. "These darned boots, I just caught them and crashed onto my knee; it's nothing."

* * *

Charlene let go of Uhura's arm and allowed her to lever herself down onto her bunk. "Doc says your knees'll be a bit stiff tonight. Can I get you anything, Curly?"

"No, Baldy, I'm good." Uhura smiled at Masters' occasional nickname for her. She hadn't seen her own, untreated, hair for years. It was a surprise to find that with the help of Commander Spock's _naric_ oil, it grew in tiny spirals that sprang from her head like crazy springs. Of course, Masters loved it.

Like everything about her appearance in this time-line, Uhura was unsure. Women's fashions in the _Enterprise _universe meant elaborate hair – Janice Rand at the acme (literally) of the "hair hierarchy." At one point even Chapel had a bizarre 'do' that looked like a grey Davy Crockett hat, complete with tail. Beating one's hair into submission was a preoccupation of the female crew – except, Uhura noted wryly, Lieutenant Masters.

"Don't worry Uhura, setbacks happen. Scotty says you're much stronger now."

Head in hands, Uhura peered at her friend through her fingers, humiliated. "It's not that..."

"...I kissed Mister Spock."

There was a thud as Charlene crashed into the chair, where she sat with boots wide, twirling the silver hilt of Uhura's cane like a circus ringmaster about to announce her most death-defying act. "Oh! I take it that didn't work out for you?"

"No – but he was kind to me. Then I ruined it by accusing him of rejecting me because I wasn't _her._"

"Who? His old fiancée – T'Pring? They broke up over three years ago. He seemed relieved, if you ask me."

"No," God, was Charlene being deliberately dense? "_Newt_."

"Woah, woah, woah, back up. What the hell are you talking about? They were never an item."

"I know that _now_." Uhura groaned. "I just...I'm not myself."

"Of course you're not; you've been through an experience that would freak out the best of us. It _did _freak out the best of us."

"I mean I'm literally not myself. My nails, my hair, my uniform, no earrings. I look in the mirror and almost jump – actually, I try not to look in the mirror."

"And who says you have to be the same self throughout your life?" The engineer stood, stepped to the side and indicated an area of space to her left with the cane. "Ada, full-length holo-mirror please." A shimmering rectangle solidified into a mahogany-framed cheval. "Superimpose Lieutenant Uhura of the _USS Enterprise _as she was found in the cutter. Clean up any injuries, tidy her hair, remove the diving suit."

An image of a woman in a red uniform appeared. If it was not for the stiffness in Uhura's knees she might have jumped up and shaken Masters, such was her shock and anger. "What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to give you a bit of perspective. How would you feel walking about the decks here dressed like her?"

"Overdressed and half-naked at the same time." It was a surprise to Uhura that the shock of seeing her old version did not last for long.

"Damn right! Ada, revert mirror to reflective mode." The woman in red took a few seconds to dissolve. Like a freight train running through a tunnel, self-awareness roared through Uhura's skull. _That woman isn't coming back._

Now she was replaced by the reflection of _Alpha_ Uhura, sitting on her bunk, with her curls, her utilitarian uniform, tough-soled boots and short nails.

"I wasn't trying to be cruel, Uhura. I just want you to stop thinking you're some kind of inferior version of yourself. You've been given an unbelievable chance to have a do-over. Don't screw it up by selling yourself short," Masters winked at Uhura in a way that reminded her so much of Scotty. "But, I reckon next time you're in Medical, get Chapel to pierce your ears – you do look kind of naked without the earrings."

"Look at this." Masters undid the lacy stock at the neck of her uniform shirt and reached inside to extract and open a plain, rectangular obsidian locket on a long chain. A youth of perhaps twenty, and a young girl of indeterminate age (she could have been anything from fourteen onwards) looked out. Masters tapped a short, silver nail to the girl, who peered nervously in the white Ordinary Starman uniform, the hideous hat jammed onto her head at an angle that suggested it was about to spring off at any moment; she was the very picture of gawky inelegance.

"Do you think that's the same person who's sitting here now?"

It took a while for Uhura to realise she was looking at Masters and Scotty. The lieutenant was now a formidable officer; she strode through the ship with diamonds glinting at her ears and her boots and buttons polished enough to blind a man. Every single starman saluted when she passed, and such was her air of efficiency that even the captain straightened in her presence.

"No, of course not, but there must be bits of her left."

"There are, but only the bits that help me."

"Thanks, Charlene."

"No problem. Scotty gave me the locket when we got married. He said it was to remind me how far I'd come, and the picture of him was to let me see how handsome he once was. Thinks he's all that. What a numpty." The laughter in her voice belied her words.

"He's a good man. He's helped me so much with my rehab."

"I got lucky I guess."

* * *

After the lieutenant left for her shift, Uhura lay on the bunk thinking about her predicament. She could continue to be a square peg in a round hole, or she could try harder to look forward, not back. Of course, there was one confounding obstacle – for everybody – the _Herald, _and its possible growing influence aboard ship. Soft clanging intimated an incoming message, and she asked Ada to display it on a screen at her bed. It was from Doctor McCoy, and was marked _eyes only, this message will self-destruct in ten minutes._ A classified document. That he had sent it – and going by the weak encryption it could probably be easily traced – showed the doctor was past caring. The first document extract was dated almost a year ago.

Document 1  
Project Gem – physician notes

The subject (code-name Gem) projects extreme empathy to the extent that it is now necessary to house it in a 600mm thick blast-proof room lined with psionic disruptor sheeting. Medical staff are compelled to confess to it their deepest fears and secrets, sometimes repeatedly. Mental breakdown is inevitable if staff are not rotated frequently, and contact with Gem is kept to a minimum. High-ranking staff are banned from contact. The risk of giving away classified information in earshot of lower ranked staff is too great. In addition, the subject invites fierce protection and loyalty, and carers become strongly attached to it after very short periods of contact. All species of medical staff are affected in this way. This bodes well if we are able to replicate the subject.

...

We have been unable to find a cure for Gem. Now near death, its influence is fading.

…

The brain tissue is unaffected by the wasting disease that attacks its body. It is aware of its condition and appears ready to meet death. If the brain could be removed shortly before this event it may be possible to create a synthetic body.

Document 2  
Project 10K/11 – The Pioneer Craft

Executive summary

A small, one-person craft, containing a Herald simulant, will appear to crash on a nominated first-contact world. Its empathic influence ensures a rescue attempt by inhabitants will be inevitable. The unique empathic properties of the simulant should guarantee its safety. An internal recording device and universal translator will ensure any information imparted to the Herald will be retained for analysis by Starfleet Intelligence.

…

At the bottom of the final paragraph was a terse message from the doctor:

"Medical briefing, tomorrow, 07.30, briefing room 6. Please attend."

Was it only two hours since McCoy had lifted her from the floor of the tank-room? It felt like a very long time ago, and she was like another person. _Enterprise _Uhura felt like someone whose life she witnessed in a holo-vid. Somewhere, Ayan was living her life without her big sister, perhaps gaining comfort from the belief she was together with their mother. No doubt each sister's memory of the other would be similar; saddled with guilt that every day the recall of features, gestures and voice became a little more difficult. Sapped by that line of thought, she turned to closer matters.

Perhaps if she could better understand the background of the Herald, she might be able to communicate with it. How had she managed to be in the next tank for three months without going mad? Medical staff who attended Gem – who she assumed to be an earlier version of the Herald – suffered badly in only a short time. Furthermore, she felt no need to confess to it her deepest fears or secrets, although faced with its huge, navy eyes she experienced an overwhelming, fierce wave of something she had never really felt within herself before – maternal instinct. Whoever had engineered this creature had gone straight for the emotional jugular.

If only she hadn't made such a fool of herself with the commander. Her courage deserted her at the thought of questioning him. "Ada, who is on duty at Sick-deck this shift?"

"Dr. Eduardo Sanchez, Nurse Christine Chapel."

"DeGama locator please Ada – destination Sick-deck." Of course, she knew her way, but tonight she needed the presence of something comforting, even if it was artificial. Amazingly, a scrawny, russet, pink-eyed chicken appeared at her feet and began to peck frantically at the deck.

"Ada..."

Embarrassment appeared to tinge the computer's voice – was that even possible? "Apologies Ma'am, a computer programmer's prank. One moment." A few tense seconds passed, but the bird eventually morphed into a sleek, pointed Siamese and together, they left the cabin.

...

Sanchez sat behind the desk in the medical office, offering a shy grin as Uhura approached. His face seemed thinner than before, and his movements were off, perhaps a little slow. No, not slow; careful.

"Hello, Doctor – I was looking for Nurse Chapel."

"She has gone out for a few minutes; can I help you?"

Not wishing to ask him questions about her treatment, Uhura offered a half-truth. "It's a bit embarrassing ... I wanted her to pierce my ears."

"Sit, I can do that for you. I do tattooing as well."

"Good joke!" she giggled.

"No joke, it's true. I did Mister Scott's wedding ring, and designs for other crew on the ship. It is a hobby." He stood from the chair and moved to some drawers at the side of the office like a whisker-less cat, appearing unsure of how exactly to manoeuvre his body.

Making quiet small-talk as he fitted a fine gold hoop into what looked like ornate, engraved pliers, Sanchez told her his family were from Barcelona, and they joked that after almost four hundred years, the _Sagrada Familia _was not yet completed.

"What do you miss from Spain?"

"Ohh ... it's a long list! The sunshine, my little dog – my brother is looking after him – _churros con chocolate, _sitting at a pavement café with a cold _Estrella _beer looking up at the skull balconies of the _Casa Batlló_."

_Bang!_ The first earring was stapled in; she jumped a little, but it didn't hurt at all.

"What do you miss from Kenya? He fumbled slightly with the device. "I'm sorry, of course you may not be from the same – "

"It's OK, I'm from the same place. I miss the sunshine, and my mother's mashed plantain."

"Yes, the cooking of a mother is always the best." Shaking his head as if reminiscing, he fitted another hoop to the little machine.

"You just returned from an away mission – what was that like?"

"Mission?" Sanchez froze, then robotically fired in the second ring, "Oh, yes, yes, yes; I was away at Starbase Nine, at a hospital there. I – ," a pause, "I needed to get away from the ship for a few weeks – " Giving him a reprieve, Christine appeared at the office door with immaculate timing.

"Well, look at you missy, don't you look purty."

Sanchez leapt like a schoolboy escaping a telling-off, "Well, I'll go put this in a steri-light. Nurse Chapel will tell you about after-care."

"Wait!" Uhura called him back. "Will you tattoo me sometime?"

Seeming relieved, he nodded. "Of course, any particular design?"

"Yes, a starfish."

"Leave a message for me when you are ready."

...

Dragging the vacated seat round to the other side of the desk, Christine turned to her friend. "McCoy told you."

Uhura leaned in to rest her elbow on the desk and put her chin wearily in her hand, nodding. Her mind went back to the medical notes for Gem. "Sanchez wasn't on a mission – he had a breakdown, didn't he?"

"I can't confirm that, but he's not allowed in there now. It's not ideal; he probably shouldn't even be near Sick-deck but he feels responsible to the team." Christine was almost whispering and a tear made its way down her parchment cheek, and she rubbed it away. Beneath her eyes, the circles were as blue as faded bruises.

"Sorry, it's just that it's so stressful. Tonight was the worst – it's never done anything like that before. Nobody knows what to do, we can't..." the next words were mouthed in silence, "..._discontinue life support." _The nurse reached over and took Uhura's hand, clinging to her like a drowning woman. "We can't let ourselves do that; we all want to protect it; but at the same time its misery is oppressive. Mister Spock has tried to teach us all some Vulcan blocking techniques. They help a little."

"Christine, how is it that I didn't go mad in that tank?"

"Commander Spock's bond. It allowed him to deflect _Herald's _psionic projection. That's part of why the doctor was against your treatment; he knew it would be very hard on the commander. He kept it up for three months, sometimes not sleeping for weeks on end. Some days, he looked like a waxwork."

"He did that for me?" Shame crawled upon Uhura like ants, an emotion that was never far away where the commander was concerned.

"Never underestimate his belief in the sanctity of life … And I think he desperately wanted _some_ good to come of this new technology, to make up for the _situation_ that is going on in there," Chapel's head jerked towards the storeroom, "although I don't know the full story. Doctor McCoy says he's got some more information for us tomorrow."

"What if it hadn't worked?"

"We would have taken you out of the tank and made your last days as comfortable as possible."

"Thanks for being honest, Christine."

"I think the time for lies has passed, don't you?"

* * *

Without Spock to help her, Uhura's discomfort was magnified. Sleep was impossible so she sat in her shower, scalding water pouring out until her ration ran out and her fingertips and toes were prunes. Now she lay on the bed in long underwear, pyjamas, a sweater and two thermo-blankets, periodically asking Ada for the time. He did not come.

She spent the night in frigid, fitful sleep; dreaming she floated far from land and rescue, in a deep, dark, dead ocean.

– End part 12 –


	14. Part 13: If you tolerate this

I own nothing (except Eala), and I profit not. Thanks to my beta SpockLikesCats, guest beta Hopefuladdict, and my chapter wranglers.

**Warnings**:/ **Triggers** :Terminal illness, child death, medical experimentation without consent, mental abuse.

* * *

**Part 13 – If You Tolerate This, Then Your Children Will Be Next**

Arriving too early, Uhura was surprised to find Briefing Room Six already occupied – by Hawkins. The boy was laying out carafes of water and stubby glasses, and a silver pot of coffee with delicate, china cups.

"Can't a steward do that, Hawkins?"

"Well, they could. If the Captain had remembered to ask me to ask them." His eyebrows gave a conspiratorial hike and he grinned.

Intrigued by a memory from the day she first met him, she asked, "You once told me your name; _Eala. _Is it your surname?"

"No ma'am, my name is Eala Curran; Eala is my first name. When I was born, I didn't cry at all. I was as pale as milk, and covered in white baby-hair; my mam said I was a swan. _Eala _is Irish Gaelic for a mute swan."

"Your mother must be proud of you now."

"She died, Ma'am; that's what put me off the rails."

Uhura reached out and put her hand on Hawkins' sleeve. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you." He allowed her hand to remain for a minute. "I'd better be going Ma'am, I've not the clearance to be here."

Next to arrive was McCoy. "How're the knees?"

"Almost better. I took my stick but I don't really need it; the re-generator helped a lot."

"No, it didn't; it wasn't switched on. I set it on standby mode. Just an old country doctor's trick – a placebo."

"You fooled me!"

"Well, whaddaya know – so I did. I needed to keep you there for observation, in case your interaction with our friend in the tank there harmed you. But I didn't want to scare you."

Now she considered it, the thumb that got jarred on the wheel on the tank-room door felt so normal she had forgotten it was even injured. "The gene therapy is doing its job then?"

"Seems like it is. Can you come by Sick-deck later so I can analyse the repair to your tissues?"

"Of course, Doctor."

Medical crew filed into the room, followed by the captain, who carried a magnificent bicorne hat, trimmed with gold and bronze braid, under his arm. It was embroidered on the front with the _Alpha's _insignia. McCoy leaned close and confided, "If he brings the hat – it's deadly serious."

Uhura felt as she had before a dangerous mission; her stomach shrank to the size of a walnut. Mouth dry and muscles tensed for an unknown assailant, she reached for water.

Taking his place at the head of the table, the captain rested his hat on the surface, then parted the tails of his coat and sat, wearing an expression graver than she had ever seen on _either_ James T. Kirk. The medical team were all present, but no Commander Spock.

A few seconds after 07.30, the commander entered the briefing room, and all who saw him were alarmed. _Enterprise _McCoy once said 'if Spock goes down, we're finished,' and she saw that fear in the assembled group. He sat in the only free chair, opposite Nyota; his appearance cadaverous. The dark hair and uniform coat contrasted so sharply with his pale skin and linen shirt that he could have been an image projected in black and white, except for his olive-rimmed eyes.

Kirk barked, "Mister Spock, are you fit to be on duty?"

"I assure you, Captain, I am."

"Report to Sick-deck after this briefing. That's an order, mister."

"Very well."

"Right, ladies and gentlemen, we're here to discuss the matter of the Herald, and last night's developments. Before we can do that, Doctor McCoy will take us through the background to the project, which up until a few days ago was hidden from us by Starfleet. Even I know nothing other than the _Herald's _primary mission objectives. Other than Doctor McCoy's, no Padds are to be used; you will be relying on your memories only. Is that clear?"

Murmurs of acceptance whispered around the table.

"Very good; carry on Bones."

The doctor pushed back his chair to stand and lifted his Padd, his fingers playing over its screen until a small image of the tank containing the _Herald _materialised above the table, a glowing magician's box. He discussed the case in professional tones.

"The _Herald_, as all of us here know, is a bio-engineered being designed to act as a first contact to non-federation planets. It invites loyalty and protection in those who tend it. It projects unparalleled empathy, and has a disturbing ability to provoke strong paternal and maternal instincts. It can't read minds, only sense vague feelings, and project.

"Mister Spock and I discovered a couple of days ago that it's a second-generation being. There was a prototype, Gem, that originated in the Starfleet medical facility in San-Francisco."

Kirk sat bolt upright in his chair, clearly startled; Chapel began to ask something, but was cut off by McCoy. "Questions at the end please, Nurse."

"The being is bewildered, despondent and is threatening the sanity of my team. Last night it lured Able Starman Uhura to the tank-room by means of perception alteration, something we haven't seen before. I don't think it's deliberately harmful, but I'm sure as hell open to the possibility it may be accidentally harmful. It's only a child. Stunted in development, and intellectually curtailed, it's confused, and lonely."

Through the exchange, Spock was silent and unfocused; when he spoke at last, the crew flinched at the edge in his voice. "I am bewildered by the continued insistence on calling the _Herald_ 'it'. Humans do have an amazing capacity for believing what they choose, and excluding that which is painful."

McCoy regarded the commander as if he were a torpedo stuck in its tube with the counter at 000001. "Spock, this isn't the time; I thought we agreed we would wait until we knew what to – "

"I disagree; it most certainly_ is _the time. I'm frequently appalled by the low regard you Earthmen have for life. Orianna should be discussed by her gender; her current body may be neuter but her mind is not."

"Dammit Spock - we said we wouldn't drag Jim into this!"

Silence, like the seconds before an impact, filled the room. Doctor and commander stared at each other like bomb disposal experts deciding which wire to cut. Kirk broke the spell, his finger tapping his chin.

"Let's hear it Bones, whatever it is."

The surgeon thumped back into his chair, and grappled with his Padd until the _Herald_ was replaced by a three-dimensional holo of two people in Starfleet Lieutenant's uniforms, a man and a woman.

The woman wore a tall mass of jet curls that were braided and pinned up in places; she had a wide smile and large, dark eyes lined with kohl. For a moment, Nyota thought the woman was Vulcan, but her large ears ended in a bifurcated point. She looked up at a tall, serene, bald man who had his arm around her waist. He was paler than her, but also with very dark eyes. His eyelashes were luxuriant, and Nyota recognised the stare of the _Herald _in them. Burning vomit rose in her gullet and she swallowed it down, the acrid sting bringing tears to her eyes. She gripped one edge of her seat so that it bit deep into her palm. Something was very, very wrong here. Grabbing her water, she drained it in one gulp, but it hit her stomach lining like vinegar.

McCoy narrated in wary tones: "Lieutenants Esile; a Halanan, and her partner, Faran; a Deltan. She was a strong, projecting telepath and he is a weak telepath with empathic pain-relieving skills." The tenses were not lost on Nyota. "While working on a research vessel near the edge of the Milky Way, Esile took a cutter and flew it near to the Galactic Barrier; an insanely dangerous act that baffled her colleagues. Shortly after that happened, Starfleet Medical discovered that, for many species, intimate relations with a Deltan leads to madness."

"Did she die?" asked Chapel.

"Not immediately. She passed out, and the cutter's instruments sensed the pilot was incapacitated and took her back to her ship. She was brain dead. They kept her on life support for three months."

M'Benga spoke up. "Why did they do that if she was brain dead?"

"Because she was six months pregnant."

Christine's hand flew to cover her mouth, as if trying to suppress nausea. "That poor man."

McCoy continued. "The father wanted it; he felt guilty because he was the indirect cause of her death – although he couldn't have known – and he wanted the child to survive. It was all he had.

Christine again: "Why couldn't they remove the foetus and tank it? Give the mother a dignified exit?"

A sharp, bitter laugh came from her Spanish colleague, "Because the body of the mother was cheaper than a tank."

With a flicker, the image changed to the man, Faran, with a little girl on his knee, the light in his eyes grown dim. The child was about seven years old, with the huge eyes and stick-limbs of the chronically sick, bald like him, and blessed with the longest black eyelashes Nyota had ever seen. Thin tubes tethered her to machinery behind them.

"This is Faran and his daughter, Orianna. Unfortunately her parents provided her with a faulty gene. She was the only child ever to have been born to a Halanan and a Deltan, so it wasn't even anticipated. By age three she became clumsy and stopped walking; by age four she was unable to swallow, finally entering a Starfleet Medical facility at seven because of chronic muscle wastage. Her father was persuaded it was for the best. In reality, with help, she could have been home, for a few more years at least."

"But?" M'Benga asked.

"But – Starfleet couldn't have monitored Orianna, or Gem as she was codenamed – 24/7 if she was at home. They sweet-talked her father into believing their superior medical care was for the best. While her body wasted, her mind became strong; exuding telepathic empathy on an unbelievable scale. Staff poured out their hopes and fears to her, and became protective and loving towards her."

"Why?" asked M'Benga again.

"Well, there's a theory about the Galactic barrier, that there's something alive in it, a presence. Folks have touched it before, and gone stark raving mad. We've got this recording from Esile's cutter." The doctor's fingers moved over his Padd once more, and the static crackle of a transmission began, only to be interrupted by a distraught woman's voice.

"Faran! Forgive me, for I know not what I do..." static, "...what are – ?" static, "Please! I beg you, _protect my child_." The last three words were a desperate shriek, followed by a high-pitched squeal, like nails on a blackboard. The incongruous, curt tones of the cutter's computer broke through:

"Pilot malfunction; engaging autopilot," then nothing.

The silence at the recording's end pervaded the room like poison gas, and the assembly recoiled from the intimacy of it. A mother's last words, hurled into the void; a plea for her first, and only born. Uhura's hand fluttered to her stomach. The terror of being trapped in a shuttle, assuming she was in her final moments, was well known to her. To be in that situation, and carrying a child, was a horror beyond imagination; the woman's moment of lucidity among her madness, a pitiless intrusion.

After a minute's silence reminiscent of a period of reflection at a memorial, the surgeon picked up his tale. "Eventually, Orianna was housed in a facility lined with psionic deflectors. The only thing that seemed to temper the projection was her father's voice. He came in twice a day to read to her. They loved poetry, and he read her the classics, and cared for her bodily needs."

"...Her condition deteriorated, and by the age of ten she was completely paralysed, suffering from what we call 'locked-in syndrome.' Her blood was artificially oxygenated; she was fed intravenously and faced the prospect of being a person of consciousness only. Eventually her muscle tissue began to break down, poisoning her system. At the age of eleven, she fell into a catastrophic decline, broadcasting to all those around that she wished to join her mother."

Christine's eyes were closed, M'Benga's hand on her arm. Nyota noted that _Alpha _Kirk made no move to tell her to act like a professional, or pull herself together, like _Enterprise _Kirk would have.

"That was the cue for a few Starfleet vultures to step in and carry out a monstrous procedure. Her brain tissue was unusual, whether by genetics, or because of contact with the galactic barrier, we don't know. Individual brain cells were extracted for study over her lifetime, supposedly to help investigate her affliction, since her brain was unaffected by the wasting disease. They cloned the cells over a period of years, effectively growing an artificial 'brain' based on Orianna's.

"It was just tissue in a tank 'though; in order to activate it, they erased most of Orianna's memories, and transferred her consciousness into the new brain – without her father's knowledge. He came to see her that day as usual, and assumed her unresponsiveness was because she was near death, which by then, she was. They removed her life support and allowed him to hold her while she 'slipped away,' not knowing that she was effectively dead already."

"But how could they do that? Her projection makes people want to _protect_ her!" Uhura didn't understand.

McCoy rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. "They told her they were preparing her to meet her mother. She was eleven years old, for God's sake. Orianna would've built her mother up to be a beautiful princess, living in a castle in the sky. I'm pretty sure she was mentally exhausted by the compulsion of everyone about her to reveal their sorrows.

"She was a child, absorbing their grief like a sponge. And of course, they had the best telepath in Starfleet, a neuroscientist skilled in mental shielding;

"...a Vulcan."

_He knows the baseness in his blood, at such strange war with something good._

Commander Spock got up and walked from the room.

Dead silence followed the commander's departure. Christine wept silently, M'Benga's arm about her shoulders now.

"Now I think that grief's leaking out and she can't stop it," said Mcoy

In a voice as cold and hard as steel, Sanchez broke into the quiet; "What kind of organisation is it that we work for? Who would do that to a child? And her father?" He banged his fist down on the table, causing an empty water glass to jump and land on its side. Once more, Kirk made no move to chastise. "It's disgusting. I have never heard of such a thing."

M'Benga released the nurse, who was swallowing rapidly, to allow her to run out of the room. "I have not heard of such a thing either, it is monstrous, a violation of everything our profession stands for. It is a violation of a child. She was assaulted in the worst possible way. Just so we could have better first contact? It makes no sense."

Kirk was ashen, his normally ruddy cheeks standing out above his beard, hands balled into tight fists, the knuckles white. "Why did I not know about this? Why has it taken so long for Starfleet to tell you, Bones?" His voice was thunder.

"Starfleet _didn't_ tell us. We couldn't implicate a ship's captain so Spock and I undertook some _research_ on our own. Spock saw something - a residue in the Herald's brain - a trace of Vulcan mumbo-jumbo. Once we felt the creature's influence, we doubted very much that it was entirely synthetic. Spock hacked Starfleet's main databanks, only bringing down tiny amounts of information at a time so's not to arouse suspicion. He even routed the data packets through other ship's computers, effectively 'laundering' them. Two days ago we fitted the final piece of the jigsaw."

Kirk placed his fingertips at his hairline, and dragged them down his face. "You could both be court-martialled."

"Spock's the best first officer in the fleet, and probably the finest computing mind in the galaxy. That's not going to happen. Unless anyone here wants to turn informant."

"Of course not, Bones," the captain snapped. "My David is ten years old. If Starfleet did this to him I would hunt the perpetrators down and make it so that they would never sleep again. Every hour would be a waking, living death as it is for that poor child. There's no question of carrying out this mission, not on my watch – assuming we live to tell the tale and the entire crew haven't thrown themselves out of an airlock first."

"Those goddamn idiots at Starfleet didn't think through the fact that the _Herald_ might affect those around it during its gestation."

Once more thoughtful, the captain mulled over the doctor's statement, "Or they did suspect, and _we_ are also an experiment. Easy to hide a clinically depressed crew up here, not so easy to hide away an incident on the ground." His comprehension sucked the air from the room.

Kirk pressed his thumb and forefinger together below his nose, then stroked his moustache in contemplation. "It's not a first contact being, Bones – it's a spy. How could Starfleet have thought we'd be so naïve?" A short puff of a laugh accompanied a shake of the captain's head.

"...Not even a spy, a _weapon,_ gathering secrets to use against potential enemies. This apparently noble 'first contact' purpose is smoke and mirrors. And they used a _child_ to achieve it. Starfleet is a vile necrophage." He exhaled, exhausted. "What more can you tell us, Bones?"

"Its gestation seems to have a daily cycle, third watch being the time when cellular growth and projection are at their highest. We've started lowering the temperature of the tank then; it helps calm things down, but it's a distasteful – and temporary – solution."

Nights spent chilled to the bone now made sense. Last night had been the worst, and there was no doubt that Spock spent the previous night awake and frozen, and didn't come to her because of her abominable behaviour towards him in Sick-deck.

M'Benga broke into her thoughts with a question. "It has to be another two months in the tank before it can survive on its own. What happens then? We can defy Starfleet, but the _Herald _will be walking about this ship."

"Starfleet is not a problem." Kirk pulled at his beard and reached into his jacket for a pipe before tapping the stem on the table. "What they did is completely unethical. If Orianna's father found out, they would be sued for billions of credits; the neuroscientist who carried out the procedure would be living his long life out on Rura Penthe, and legitimate research would be held back decades because of the public outcry. I'm sure Spock could engineer an untraceable, anonymous 'leak.' Bones, you have a theory to help us in the meantime?"

"I have. In old Britain in 2006, there was a disaster during a medical trial for an anti-inflammatory drug called TGN1412. It caused catastrophic systemic organ failure in the subjects, despite being administered at a supposed sub-clinical dose. One theory was the reaction was caused by the dosage being too low.

"I think we need to start having _more _contact with the _Herald_, not less. Uhura spent three months solid with it, and she's not nearly as affected as the rest of us. I think there's more to that than simply Mister Spock's mental shield. Even he couldn't keep it up at a consistent level for three months. He reads to it, a couple of hours every day, and the projection he experiences is more physical than mental. Although that could be because the Vulcan hobgoblin who erased the memories did some protection hoodoo for himself that works on Spock. I can't force anyone to do this though, only suggest we do that."

"I'll do it," volunteered Sanchez. "She's only a child."

Releasing a long breath, the doctor dragged a thumbnail over the briefing table. "I'm not really certain what she is any more."

After the briefing wound up, McCoy took tissue readings from Uhura's knees and asked if she would go and see Spock to cajole him into presenting himself at Sick-Deck. He persuaded her that it would be an opportunity to patch up the cracks in their relationship, if that was how their tenuous connection could be described. Being on Sick-Deck was different now, knowing who lay behind the submarine door.

Tentatively, she probed, "The captain has a son?"

For the first time in days, the doctor smiled. "Yeah, David. He's ten. Lives with his mom in San Francisco. She and the captain aren't together. He's a sparky little kid, been on the ship a couple of times. Put Jim's nose out of joint by following Hawkins around like an excited puppy. I suppose he's the big brother he doesn't have. Your Kirk not have a kid?"

Uhura answered truthfully, "I don't know, but he wasn't open about his life."

As she left Sick-Deck, she glimpsed M'Benga and Sanchez through the half-open door of the office, locked together in grief. They were all drowning.

Marching up to the commander's cabin, she hesitated at the threshold when the door slid open as soon as she pressed the comm. Silence greeted her, and she drifted into his accommodations. He was not at his desk. Swallowing to counteract a closing throat, she commanded Ada to open the panels to the sleep partition, fighting against the invasion of privacy; necessary due to her growing concern.

Spock was resting on his bunk, curled toward the wall. Nyota tiptoed over to him, unable to tell if he was asleep, ill, meditating or lying awake. Her hand floated to his hair, and hovered above it. He turned his head then sat up, dislodging the bed's cover, startling her so that she snatched the hand away in embarrassment, saying, "You were cold and unable to sleep last night. I know about the temperature in _Herald's _tank, that they turn it down."

"Indeed. Last night it was lowered further as a precaution, due to the evening's incident. You feel what she feels, and – because of the physical bond – the discomfort is passed on to myself."

Nyota winced at his use of the feminine. "You aren't on the bridge?"

"Obviously."

_Deja vu;_ both Spocks were so literal. "I meant that as a question - is this not your watch?"

"The Captain has granted me second watch today, due to my – " he groped for a word, "fatigue."

"Vulcans don't tolerate cold well, do they."

"Affirmative."

"I behaved terribly yesterday. I'm sorry."

"Agreed. I am surprised you would believe me so unprincipled."

"It was misdirected frustration at my situation."

"How illogical."

She offered him a thin, closed-mouth smile, "Yes, it was. Very illogical." Nyota sat on the edge of his bunk and pulled off her boots. The Vulcan regarded her with lowered eyebrows. "Lie down as you were, please."

He complied, like a broken prisoner.

She slipped behind him on the bunk, swaddling his long limbs with hers and both of their bodies in the cover. Beneath, he was wrapped in white linen, and as cold as the clay.

.

.

Much later, she awoke to hear Ada stating that Spock was due on watch in thirty minutes. Almost seven hours had passed since she entered his room.

_Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me; a sleep by kisses undissolved._

Her limbs left his warmed body, a buffer of cold air separating them, and she agitated his shoulder, "Spock, wake up; you're on watch in half an hour."

She was the diver before the dive as his eyelids lifted. Fear and exhilaration bubbled through her blood as his flesh heated her hand.

"I am...somewhat restored. And grateful, Able Starman, that you have aided me in evading the ship's surgeon."

_Able Starman. _She hit the water with a hard smack.

"I'll go, sir; you have to be on the bridge."

.

.

Back in her own quarters, there was a recorded message from Hawkins: "Mister Spock would be pleased if you could accompany him for dinner during his mid-watch break this evening."

They met in the mess, quiet at this hour, and sat in a corner, away from prying eyes, although Nyota could not shake the feeling of being observed. They spoke of Vulcan music, Terran poetry and the ship's computer systems. The commander appeared much improved, and she was moved by the sight of him in full uniform, as imposing a man as ever walked the decks Eventually, Nyota asked a question, one she maybe didn't want answered.

"Sir, what is that doll? The one you returned to me?"

"When she was six years old, Orianna painted the doll at occupational therapy. It is a representation of her mother; medical notes suggest the unusual colour was simply her favourite. Indeed, I wonder if her current complexion is a subconscious projection."

Nyota's chin sank to her chest and her fingers worried the edge of her tray. "I thought she doesn't remember her life? How did the doll get to me? What is it even doing on the ship?"

"Will you permit me to address all three questions in one answer?" He was teasing her, and she nodded.

"The doll was in a box of her effects, along with the volumes of poetry in my possession, grave goods robbed by Starfleet. Orianna's mother belonged to a race of Halanans who, in extreme psychological distress, are able to project seemingly solid objects telepathically. I hypothesise that the child has evolved beyond this and is able to move certain items by telekenesis."

"But she shouldn't know about the doll, if her memories were wiped." The taste of the last phrase was acid in her mouth.

"Indeed, but a Halanan who projects has no knowledge of the projection and would not recognise it as part of their 'self', so far buried is it in their subconscious. It is curious that she remembers poetry; beyond a few simple words, it is her sole method of communication. I have formulated a hypothesis."

The commander pushed his chair back and bent forward, elbows resting on knees and with his elegant fingers steepled before him.

"Orianna was as an infant for much of her life; her motor skills were exceedingly poor due to the affliction. She walked late, and only then for 10.8 months, regressing again by the age of three. The lower functions of the brain, normally used for motor control, were underdeveloped, as if they had given up in the face of the impossible challenge of moving her wasted muscles.

"Her cerebral cortex became a mass of memories, fears and grief, not her own, but from those who unburdened themselves. In the same way that Halanans project subconsciously, her brain may have instigated emergency measures to preserve a small piece of self, secreting her poetry where it would not normally reside – in subcortical grey matter – effectively encasing it in a disguise."

With her head still lowered, hiding the brimming of tears, Nyota whispered, "That Vulcan, the best Neuroscientist in Starfleet, he would know that, wouldn't he? You thought of it."

"Agreed."

"So he left her with something of herself. He wasn't a complete monster. It also allowed him a get-out. He could write a report on his actions without lying."

The commander sighed, but he did not answer so she continued, "If that's there, what else is in there, and why doesn't it come out?"

"Unknown; perhaps it requires a trigger, or perhaps there is nothing more."

"She must be so lonely; I'd like to read to her, if you think it would help."

"I believe we should attempt all possible comfort."

* * *

That night he came to her, and they clung to one another. Chaste shipmates enduring the enforced intimacy of a shipwreck in icy waters, all correctness dashed and broken on the rocks.

- end part 13 -


	15. Part 14: But still, like dust I'll rise

**A****/****N****. **Phrase of the day, **Cable ****locker**, a closet in a ship where the anchor chain is rolled in. On sloppy ships, sailors don't wash the chain as it is being hauled in, so it's festooned with dead crabs, fish-bits and slimy fronds of seaweed; making a spell of punishment in there a bit of a trial. This is _Alpha__'__s _nickname for the brig.

The title of this part, and of part 5, are lines taken from the poem _Still __I __rise__, _Maya Angelou, 1978_. _They are used under fair use terms, and not for profit. All other lines of poetry in this work are out of copyright. Thanks as always to SpockLikesCats, and all my chapter wranglers!

**Warning: **Possible triggers for victims of assault.

* * *

**14 – ****But ****Still****, ****Like ****Dust ****I****'****ll ****Rise**

The following morning, awakening alone in her cabin, fury swept away the sadness. Uhura suffered rage born out of revulsion at the exploitation of a child – by those who feigned concern. Anger was directed at herself due to shame, and distress that she had accepted she could not return from whence she came, effectively giving up on her _Enterprise _friends and life.

Lost in repetitive, pointless thoughts during her morning walk, and finding herself in an uncharted part of the ship, she ordered a De Gama locator from Ada. Her destination command was interrupted by a rough, cockney voice behind her.

"Well, well, what 'ave we got here? If it isn't the Vulcan's bit o' stuff."

She spun, and met with a male junior lieutenant, tall and paunchy, who lumbered towards her until she was backed into a bulkhead, her view blocked by his width. His breath stank of stale rum, and stringy hair flopped over a sweaty forehead.

"Saw you 'avin' dinner wiv' 'im last night. You be willin' to share _my_ bed, lovely? Rumour is the Commander visits you. Must be fun, shagging _that_ block of ice. Now, I'd warm you up good and proper." He pressed closer, his damp proximity causing saliva to pool at the back of her teeth. "But, of course, there's those of us who don't quite know if you're real. The Commander was sooo sad when the other one died – for a Vulcan – boo-hoo. Perhaps he made anuvver one? You could be a simulant of some kind."

Revolted, she was frozen as his hand caressed her cheek. "You feel real enough, let's try another test, shall we?" He magicked up a slim knife, which he proceeded to caress down the side of her face. She thought him a coward, only meaning to scare her; then unexpectedly, he pushed the tip further and scraped it into her skin so she felt the burning sting of it on her cheek. Terrified now, she was unable to react.

"Well then, looks like real enough blood to me, could be a fake though. Your hair's _weird_, is that real hair? The uvver one's hair wasn't like that."

Still holding the weapon, stubby, bitten fingers took one of her curls and stretched it out. Uhura had heard the expression that came to mind many times before, but at that moment, on that ship, with that creep, she finally understood.

_Red __mist__._

Her hand stiffened, chopping his away; a knee thrust up and connected with his groin with such force that he was momentarily lifted from the deck. He dropped at her feet as though shot.

Uhura stepped away from the unkempt lump, his hand at an unnatural angle to his wrist, and shoved him with her boot. She leant down to his ear and whispered; "Nobody touches the hair." Another shove: "Got it?"

Concern about what to do next was alleviated by the arrival of a weather beaten, silver-haired marine, resplendent in his red tail-coat and white Sam Browne belt; a laser-rifle at his side. Handsome features were afforded further gravitas by a walrus moustache.

"Commander Giotto - thank goodness." Never had she been so relieved to see a familiar face. He nodded in a brisk, professional manner, and held up a silencing hand to the beginnings of her breathless explanation.

"Let's just see what Ada recorded first, shall we, Ma'am." The Marine commander issued brusque instructions.

Unable to watch as the computer replayed her interaction with the foul lieutenant in a floating panel, Uhura fixated on Commander Giotto's form. He knelt on one knee, still watching the scene, and pressed two fingers on the deck-bound man's neck. Uhura was admiring the flex of his strong thighs in his white britches, while berating herself for even thinking such a thing at a time like this, but got distracted by a gleam at the top of his boot.

A large, black stone shone in the corridor's bright light and, as she considered its function, Giotto's hand moved from the pest's neck to the gem, and grasped it, withdrawing a slim, miniature dagger. Pushing her assailant over onto his back, the marine used the blade to slice through the stitches on his junior lieutenant's epaulettes – effectively stripping him of his rank. Giotto sheathed his small blade, and stood.

"Right Ma'am, it's pretty clear what happened here; this idiot's been fishing off the anchor for a long time, and filling young Chekov's head with nonsense. I'll see he gets put in the cable-locker solo 'till he screams for his mama – and dries out. He'll be busted to ordinary starman for the rest of the mission and kept to cleaning the portholes the hard way. You want to see a doctor?"

Uhura shook her head. Although her respiration was rapid, and adrenaline pumped through her veins, she felt like...exulting.

"Sure you don't need that cut looked at?"

"No, it's fine, I can clean it. Thanks for the help."

"You're welcome, Ma'am, but I believe you can help yourself."

Uhura gave a little bow and summoned up a sleek panther-cat from Ada to find her way back. As it led her away, she heard Commander Giotto order up a couple of medical orderlies 'to dredge up this derelict'.

* * *

Cleaning the cut proved painless, whether due to the adrenaline rush, or because of her enhanced cellular regeneration properties, Uhura could not be sure. Part of her wished it could stay, a battle-wound for all to see, but it would fade like a memory. She smiled at the thought of her old self thinking such a thing.

She spent a peaceful hour calling up classic Terran poetry from the ship's library, and halfway through reading _The __Lady __of __Shallot_, the soft clanging of a message suspended its rhythm.

"Accept."

Hawkins' youthful face appeared in a holo-window.

"Ho-ho Ma'am. As Scotty once said, the haggis is in the fire now!" He spoke, theatrically grave: "The First Officer would like to see you in his quarters immediately." As his pale face shimmered out of sight, she swore she saw him suppress a laugh.

Boots like lead, she pressed the entry on the commander's door. It slid open and Nyota stood in the threshold. Spock sat at his desk, fitting a cog to his chronometer with slim tweezers. Gesturing for her to come in, without turning round, he continued to carry out his task while she stood to attention, waiting for him to finish. At length, he laid down his tools, removed his magnifying lens with exaggerated care, and faced her. He made no sign for her to sit.

"At ease." He pulled open a drawer and removed a small, ancient book, leather-bound in russet brown with faded gold art nouveau figuring, and offered it to her. "You expressed a wish to read to Orianna. I have taken the liberty of choosing a volume." Accepting it, she read the cover: _The __Rubaiyat __of __Omar __Khayyam__._

"Thank you sir."

"It has come to my attention that you were involved in an altercation."

"Yes, sir."

"I have a report on the condition of your assailant, now an ordinary starman, from Doctor McCoy. He was admitted to Sick-deck with a dislocated wrist, transverse fracture of the ulna, hairline fracture of the pubis, and – " Spock reached beyond his desk to the ledge of his cabin's bowed windows, and took up a Padd. "Are you familiar with human male anatomy, Miss Uhura?"

What the hell was he asking? As if in response, the commander cast out an image from his Padd: a skeletal male pelvis, with a glowing red spot along the edge of one of the interior arches.

"Do you know what this region is called?"

"No sir."

"This area is the greater sciatic notch. The glowing spot represents the location from which one of your assailant's testicles was extracted by Doctor McCoy. I have been among humans for many years and am well aware this is not the conventional location for this organ."

Squirming, Uhura tried to keep her gaze on the commander; his mouth was pressed into a line. She thought it a line of disapproval, but the closer she observed, the more she saw. He was _amused__._

Brave now, she approached his chair. "You've had your fun, sir. May I be excused?"

His hand reached out and a smooth fingertip touched her cheek. A naturalist trying not to frighten her quarry, she remained immobile, breath shallow as he traced just below the cut on her face, eyes blazing. "It will repair. I give you my word as an officer; his career will not." The digit moved down; she imagined jerking her head towards it and catching the tip of it in her mouth, her tongue light on the pad, the taste of metal. The commander's eyelids lowered, his breath became louder and she beheld a slight rocking of his body, as if he was adjusting an uncomfortable arrangement in his dress.

_The __moving __finger __writes__, __and __having __writ__, __moves __on__._

"You will report to Lieutenant Sulu at 07.00 tomorrow, for combat training." This statement was delivered while he traced the line of her top lip, his voice deep and slow. "I have no desire for you to compromise your Starfleet career due to an inability to control your strength." The hand drifted to his thigh and he continued in the same languid tone, drawing out syllables, "Dismissed."

Nyota could not get her boots to move; she was stopped in time. Since her arrival, she had not felt such a moment of peace since he placed his hands on her face in the boat; inside her mind. The memory triggered a nightmarish tableau of Orianna, immobile, and with some other, cruel, Vulcan stooped above her. It was impossible for her to leave his presence without committing a transgression.

"That Vulcan – the one who erased Orianna's memories – did you know him?"

Spock paused for so long, she thought he wouldn't answer. "I did... once. I was a child." Presenting her with his uniformed back, he requested a holo-screen and called up some star charts, the message implicit.

She hugged the book to her chest and, finally unstuck, retreated.

No sooner than she sat at her desk to read, the clang of the comm alerted her to a message from Christine. Nervous, because she hadn't seen her friend since the dreadful briefing, she hesitated before accepting the call. Christine's face was red and streaked with tears, she gulped in small, sobbing breaths, opening her mouth to speak; but no words came out. Uhura wished she could reach through the screen to take the nurse's hand.

Without warning, Chapel was shoulder-charged out of the frame by M'Benga. "For goodness sake, Christine, let me talk to her - get a grip, woman. Uhura, that was the best laugh we've had here since one of the ordinary starmen got his 'little friend' stuck in a sawn-off bit of coolant pipe. Even Sanchez was trying not to laugh during the surgery. He's whistling 'Colonel Bogey' all through the Sick-Deck now."

"What?"

Christine burst into the frame again. "You know. That ancient Terran World War II propaganda song..." She sang in a voice that squeaked through lack of oxygen; "Hitler has only got one ball, Goring has two but very small, Himmler has something similar, and poor old Goebbels has no – b – buh –." The end defeated her and she resumed her laughter, bending double out of the frame; giving a good impression of someone who was expiring.

McCoy pushed his head over M'Benga's shoulder. "He'll be singing soprano for a few days. I also made sure I got our most flap-mouthed orderly to help. It'll be all over the ship like a dose of the sh– I mean, scuttlebutt travels fast here. Oh, hang it! You know what I mean. Anyway, everyone'll know the louse was cannoned by a tiny gal half his size. Good job!"

The doctors moved away from the frame, and Christine sprang up again, having regained her respiratory reflex. She looked serious. "I felt horrible, so guilty. We were all laughing earlier. I think it was almost hysteria, a reaction to yesterday, so I went to see the _Herald_, and... she didn't seem quite so distraught. I think it's some kind of feedback loop - we feed off each other, so the poison just stays in all our systems. I better go, I'm supposed to be working."

Spock didn't come that night; he was on a double-watch. Uhura lay in bed contemplating the nurse's theory. It seemed now that she knew the reason for her chill, it was a little easier to endure.

* * *

In the gym the following morning, Sulu greeted Uhura with a cheery smirk. "Good morning. I hear you got in a fight?"

Returning the grin, she said "You should see the other guy."

"Oh?" Sulu looked puzzled. "I heard he is no longer a guy."

They began by setting up an electronic dummy, which was dressed as a cliché of a pirate, a knotted bandanna on its bald head. It stood gazing at her with baleful blank eyes.

"All right, give it your best shot - punch him – anywhere."

Uhura made her hand into a fist, trying to recall her combat training. Approaching the dummy from the front, she looked it up and down, then struck hard and sharp in the centre of the chest.

Sulu sprang into action, pressing a tiny earpiece into his ear with one hand, thrusting the other into the air and counting down on his fingers like the referee at a boxing match, "Five... four... three... two... one... KO!"

The Lieutenant gazed at Uhura in awe for a few seconds, then deadpanned, "He's dead, Jim."

"What? I hardly touched him; don't mess about."

Sulu folded his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow. "Ada, trauma assessment on combat simulant."

The computer's familiar voice rattled out a report: "Blunt force trauma to sternum, two ribs shattered, twenty-one millimetre tear to aorta. Exsanguination in eleven point six seconds."

Uhura's hand flew to her forehead; she felt ill. What if she had hit the odious lieutenant elsewhere?

Sulu studied her face; "It's all right, lucky shot I guess. I can train you. Lord knows it's the first time I've been asked to make someone _less _lethal. You up for some hard work?"

Relieved he didn't judge her, or regard her as a freak, she nodded. "Let's get to it."

- End part 14 –


	16. Part 15: A sixfold cord of love

Thank you to guest beta and chapter wrangler TeaOli.

**Warning**: Brief, euphemistic reference to 'self-stimulation'.

* * *

**Part 15 – Lowered softly, with a sixfold cord of love  
**  
Days stretched; wide as the ocean. Combat training with Sulu, and climbing with Scotty served to both temper, and strengthen her body. Sessions with Doctor Noel continued, although further spaced, and Uhura was accustomed to keeping a video-diary of both her old and new lives. The commander was sufficiently satisfied with Uhura's progress to secure her a part-time position as an able starman on the ship's computing staff. Granted; it was a lowly start, but one that brought light and air to her life, and thrust her among a team at once painfully reticent, then, after some weeks, full of humour and life. Their ignorance of Orianna was a balm to Uhura's raw emotion and she embraced the post with good cheer, mindful of her status as a curiosity, and an interloper.

And _Herald _was growing tired.

It was a truth universally acknowledged that a child's demeanor was a reflection of that of its parent or guardian, and Nurse Chapel's theory of a feedback loop of misery was well observed. The day after Uhura's altercation with the odious lieutenant (Charlene called him something quite different), McCoy called a meeting of all those who knew of the _Herald_. All, except the captain; the doctor was adamant that any emotional or psychological experiments were to exclude the man in charge of the ship. Someone must remain master of their own mind.

"Right, here's what we're gonna do. I don't think we should mention its original gender or name. We all have to practice thinking of it this way in case we slip up. I'm worried it could trigger a cruel storm of memories." McCoy's tone was clipped and sure, his fingers tense on a Padd.

"We are going to go in there, on a watch system, and read to it, same as Spock does. As well as poetry, I want us all to _talk. _Tell it about what makes you happy, scenes you remember when you were at your most content. Starfleet made sure the tank-room had no recording devices, in case something _got out. _All the better for us that they made pains to hide their dirty little sin. You all go in there and tell it the best Goddam moments of your lives. Whatever it takes. We were folks picking at a scab before; it needs to be left to heal. What do you say, Spock?"

The commander's lower lip pushed on his upper, and he nodded. "I concur, doctor, although for a Vulcan, _happy_, is somewhat subjective."

"I don't care if ya have to go back to when you were two years old, Spock. Just tell it something _nice_."

"I will endeavour to acquiesce to your request, doctor."

"You mean you'll try."

"I believe that is what I just said, doctor."

Bones leaned forward. "Right, questions?"

"I think the father has a right to know what happened to his child." M'Benga's posture was stiff, his head fixed towards the desk.

McCoy straightened. "Dammit M'Benga, I also think he has the right, but I'm not sure we have the right to tell him. If it was my Joanna, I would want to know everything." Bones sagged, deflated, and looked without focus to the middle distance while scrubbing his hand through his hair. "But at the same time, it would haunt me for the rest of my life. I can't take the responsibility of burdening that on another man. What would be our motivation?"

"Closure?" asked M'Benga.

"He thinks he already has that. Would you cut that wound open again? This time a million times worse? In my bitter experience, those who spill secrets only do it to salve their own guilt."

"What about vengeance?" This was from Sanchez.

Commander Spock clasped his hands on the desk and spoke to the group. "Believe me when I say I will be seeking covert justice on behalf of the child's father. None of us are currently enamoured with our employers. Vengeance however, will not return her."

Nyota, appalled at the suggestion of telling Orianna's father, sought to re-direct the conversation. "Why did it try to reach out to me?"

McCoy answered; "Imagine you were in solitary for three months, and they bring in another cell-mate; unconscious, but living, warm and breathing. Wouldn't you be grateful they were there, even if they couldn't talk to you? You'd definitely talk to them; you might even become protective of them if they seemed more vulnerable than you were.

"Now imagine they were taken away; you would be worried, concerned they had come to harm. If you were very young you might think it was your fault they left, maybe believe they were somehow mad at you. I think it was trying to contact you for reassurance. Remember, _Herald_ is a child, and a motherless one at that."

The commander leaned forward over the table, "Your deduction is impressive, doctor."

"Why thank you Spock. I'm overjoyed."

Despite the oppressive weight of the proceedings, a wave of quiet smiles travelled around the table at the hint of old sparring, which these past few months was absent.

M'Benga now, "It is asleep a lot more now; we know that is because it is nearing its gestation. What are we going to do when it is 'born', in about eight weeks time?"

Everyone looked expectantly at McCoy; "I don't know."

"That is not a suitable plan, sir." M'Benga's voice rose in volume.

"I _said_ I don't know."

"This is somebody's child: we are not going to stand by and watch."

"We aren't doing so, _sir_." McCoy stood and kicked his chair back, palms splayed on the table, the muscles in his jaw tight.

"Cole..." Sanchez placed a warning finger on M'Benga's forearm, but the African shook it off and stood, facing his superior officer with a wide stance.

Unaccustomed to such a display of aggression from M'Benga, both Uhura and Spock put their hands on the edge of the table, meaning to rise and defuse the situation as best they could, but they were beaten to the pitch by an unlikely referee. Nurse Chapel stood and bashed her fist on the desk with the sharp crack of a gavel, her eyes glittering.

"Gentlemen! I will remind you there is a child in there. Nothing is to be gained by us bickering amongst ourselves. How can we support her when we have fallen apart. Look for answers, stop goading each other like a couple of... a couple of.. Ferengi traders!"

Nobody had ever heard Christine raise her voice, let alone berate two senior officers, and an awed hush fell on the group. "Shake hands."

"What?" McCoy was immobile, isolated by his rage.

"You heard me." Christine folded her arms over her chest in a maternal stance.

With no choice but to obey, the doctors reached over the desk and met with a curt handshake.

* * *

It was uncommon, but there was a patient in Sick-deck; a purple, waxen able starman. Her face was a staring blank, one eye swivelling, the other covered by an ornate pirate's patch. Uhura walked by her with purpose, a book tucked under her arm. If you are somewhere you are not meant to be, do it with conviction. As she breezed past, she nodded at McCoy, her eyes darting to the patient.

"Don't mind her, doll. She's high as a dirigible. Twenty minutes ago her eyeball was on her cheek, dangling by the optic nerve."

Experience taught her not to ask more. Bones' gory explanations came with too much relish for Uhura. Her mind's eye saw him approach the starman's surgery, rubbing his palms in glee.

On stepping through the store-room, Uhura was disturbed to see the submarine door ajar a foot, wan aqua light illuminating the space where she waited. Concerned, she inched to the door with quiet care, peeking her head around the riveted metal edge.

Sanchez sat on a soft velvet chair, brought for the comfort of companions. He beckoned to Uhura, mid-story, and gestured for her to wait. So she sat on the store-room floor, her feet resting inside the tank-room. Heat blasted her skin and she understood the reason for the open door. Climate control only functioned inside the tank and so the room, now more frequently occupied, became stuffy and humid, especially for space-dwellers accustomed to a dry atmosphere. Leaning on the door-jamb, she closed her eyes and listened to Sanchez' deep, gravelly voice. Uncomfortable as a voyeur, Uhura watched him through a fake snooze.

"...so little Eduardo went to the park made out of blue shiny stuff, and lay on the grass. It was dry and pricked his back through the shirt. When he closed his eyes, the sun was so bright it was still light and he could see his eyelashes. Dreaming of his street, he put his hand into the pocket of his shorts, playing with the few credits he saved in his _banco de cochinillo_, and thought of Senor Torres, who would put two extra churros into his paper cone."

Finished with his story, he rose and pressed his palm to the tank, and _Herald_ looked toward his face, the corners of her gummy mouth turning up.

And so was born a tradition; story-tellers, who were happy to, left the door open so a colleague could sit at the threshold and listen. In this manner, Uhura heard Spock play the lyre, recite Vulcan poetry and talk of a childhood pet with such suppressed emotion that she felt her eyes prickle.

Rich notes of an intricate guitar tune often accompanied Sanchez' tales about his little dog, _Estrella_, who he protested (weakly) was not named after the beer.

Christine drew bright, splashy pictures and taped them up around the tank-room while singing nursery rhymes. Sometimes she sneaked into the room for a nap, finding the warm atmosphere, and pulse of the tank's aerator, a soporific.

M'Benga was lucky enough to have been furnished with a little brother Jack, who was something of a comedy classic. Everyone in M'Benga's family was named after a historical figure, and his young brother was no exception. Named for the first black commissioned officer in the Royal Navy, poor Jack was the clumsiest M'Benga to have ever walked the earth. Uhura often found herself clutching her sides in agony with tears streaming down her face, while M'Benga told terrible tales of blunderbuss bumbling, unintentional offence, clownish loss of motor-control and accidental defenestration of precious objects. There was also a panoply of calamitous pants-down situations. Disappointed, his mother's woe was described thus; "The namesake of your brother was running an arms operation to supply rebel slaves with guns when he was Jack's age. Jack can't run a bath." Maladroit Jack and his lubberly lurch through life helped to patch things up between McCoy and his colleague.

As well as laughter, days were filled with poetry and reminiscence. This was most painful for Uhura, since her memories were of a life and family now out of reach. She tried to keep things light, talked about incidents that involved friends, not family, and when she ran out of stories, she took Newt's lyre from Spock's quarters and played to _Herald_. She found a kind of peace in playing once more, and lost herself in the notes; a type of active meditation. Poetry and music were her companions by day, the commander her platonic companion by night.

Looking back, those trying times were the happiest of days. In private, Uhura wished for them to go on forever, as the problem of how to confront Starfleet when it was time for _Herald _to be born loomed large over the team. They all tried to avoid thinking of how they would have to fight on her behalf. McCoy suggested they could become a pirate ship, and he only seemed to be half-joking.

* * *

In the night, Nyota felt the mattress swell below her body, and she rolled around to find Spock sitting on the edge of the bunk.

"Ada, lights ten percent. You're leaving?" Never before had she questioned his departure, and no sooner were the words out, they were regretted.

"I have work to attend to."

Half-lit, his features were thrown into relief and she thought of how much she disliked his sideburns. Through her dejection cut the voice of _Enterprise _McCoy: 'Women, always trying to change you.' She sat up and faced his back. As always, he was fully clothed while she wore a cotton chemise. She curled her hand, palm-down, an inch above his shoulder, revelling in the warmth radiating from his muscles. After a moment's hesitation, she allowed it to drop onto him, starting when his large hand slid up to cover hers, pulling it to his face and causing her face to lean into his shoulder. Seconds passed as he pressed her palm to his closed mouth, inhaling deeply.

Nyota pressed her cheek to his back, wishing away the barrier of his shirt and waistcoat. He allowed his lips to brush her hand, warm and dry, his breath so hot it caused a wave of static to electrify her skin. Never in her life had such a chaste act elicited such a physical reaction, and she trembled with fear for his next move.

There had been a shift in the relationship between the commander and Uhura after he put his finger to her lips in his quarters. Always during the day, the atmosphere between them was bounded by the ropes of propriety and professionalism.

Previously, at night, the loosing of the ropes did not occur and he seemed even more restrained; a boat tied up too fast, lest it drift away, but being splintered by its chains. He needed a careful handling that drained her. Each night, she treated him as a wild animal, not daring to ask why he came when he requested no emotional or sexual comfort, only requiring that she be with him. As the _Herald _reached an equilibrium, the tank temperature was kept constant, resulting in both Spock's and Uhura's nights becoming tolerable. She thought he wouldn't come then, but he did, and she was terrified to ask why in case he stopped.

Now, however, he seemed always on the very edge of opening up, and as his breath burned into her hand, she screwed shut her eyes and made a silent prayer; _please let me through these barred gates_, over and over, until he dropped her limb and cold assaulted her skin through the filmy cotton. Bereft, she observed his retreat as he stood and walked from her cabin without looking back.

Acrid tears burned her face as she sought comfort from her own hand, not for the first time, driven by frustration and despair.

The smell of him on the pillow was both a joy and a sorrow.

– End 15 –


	17. Part 16: I sing the body electric

Thank you to betas SpockLikesCats and TeaOli. Please check out TeaOli's stories, they are wonderful.

**Warning**: strong language from an unlikely source.

* * *

**Part 16 – I Sing the Body Electric**

In the tank-room, the atmosphere took on the quality of the sick-bed of a beloved family member with a minor ailment that kept them confined, but in need of entertainment. Its stark medical décor was softened by Nurse Chapel's colourful pictures of sunrises, green hills, blue oceans and animals. A polished table with twisted legs was moved in, and its surface acquired a number of books and musical instruments that lay awaiting a performer. At the centre of the scene lay the constant presence of _Herald_, contentment seeping through its glass cage while it slept. Awake, it was curious and alert, but no longer projected poetry, or made any attempts to communicate. With only two weeks left until its 'birth', the team was less apprehensive of its fate, certain they could find a place for it, and defeat Starfleet.

"I think someone would adopt her; there are lots of inter-species adoptions now, and intersex beings are common enough." Christine waved her chopsticks, elbows on the Sick-deck office desk.

"I think you're right. I've also had a very good look-through for Spock's bots that he sent to trawl for information. They're untraceable."

"Well, Uhura, if you can't find them then they won't be found. Spock is fond of saying your hacking skills are second only to his own. Well, he doesn't say _exactly_ that, but you get the meaning. We just need to blame some …_ anonymous whistle blower _and tell Starfleet we know about their dirty experiment."

Uhura lifted her bowl and took a slurp of soup to hide a girlish smile of pride, but Chapel was not easily fooled. "You don't sleep alone, do you?"

Miso soup went down the wrong way, and Uhura spluttered loudly, causing Chapel to get up and walk round the desk to administer a firm smack between her friend's shoulder blades. "Sorry, it's no shame. I don't think any of us do."

Back when Uhura fractured her wrist, she'd heard an argument between McCoy and the nurse that didn't sound like a professional exchange, and Christine had emerged red-eyed. When McCoy and M'Benga had almost come to blows, it was Christine who mediated, bringing McCoy, her superior, to heel. It had been staring Uhura in the face for months. "You _rat_! I suspected something. I heard you arguing once, but you're so discreet. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know if it would last after _Herald_ became more content. I wasn't sure enough of it myself, but I really care for the grumpy old mule!"

"You look a lot better, Christine, you've got your appetite back."

"I know, I've been eating like a horse for the last week or two." She reloaded her chopsticks and grinned at Uhura. "Wow, the commander. He's a very attractive man, nicely built. I mean, I - I've only seen him in a medical capacity of course." Chapel blushed.

Uhura huffed out a breath. "You're better informed than I am then - he sleeps in his clothes. I don't know what he wants from me, or why he comes to my cabin."

"So you don't..."

"No."

"Oh."

Silence overtook the two women; there was really nothing to be said.

* * *

Uhura sat cross-legged on her bunk, optimising a couple of aged engineering programs for Scotty. They were offered as some 'bonny bedtime reading' and, for the chief engineer, they probably were. Well into her task, it took a few seconds for her brain to disengage when her door-chime rang. The hour was not especially late, but she knew Charlene and Christine were on watch.

"Enter."

This was unexpected; goosebumps rose as she observed a person she hadn't seen in months, not since he questioned her identity at the ward-room dinner; Chekov.

What was he doing at her cabin? Did someone send him to relay a message? Trying not to show annoyance in her voice, she asked, "What can I do for you, Able Starman?"

The young man looked at the deck, one boot tapping, apparently struck speechless. After an overly-long pause, he puffed out his chest in upright parade stance and spoke past her shoulder at the porthole in a rapid report; "I heff come to apologise, Ma'am, for my previous behaviour. This is my first mission and we heff never encountered such a thing. I did not believe it possible..." the speed of his words slowed "...for somevun to come from another Uniwerse. Also, I allowed myself to be taken in by scuttlebutt. I am sorry."

"That took courage, Mister Chekov. I believe only those without sin should cast the first stone, or the second. I accept."

Wilting with relief, he drew a wrapped package from behind his back. "I heff brought a gift, Ma'am. A small portrait of Alpha's figurehead, Valentina Vladimirovna Tereshkova – she was the first woman in space – and a small ornament for your quarters, from Russia."

"Why thank you, Chekov." Uhura took the package from the starman. "We have a figurehead? Like on a real sailing ship?"

"Oh yes, Ma'am. She is on the front, ower twenty meters high. Sometimes we go out in the diwing suits and give her a touch-up."

"Um... what?"

"Polish out any battle-scars or meteor strikes."

"Oh! I see."

"I heff to go, Ma'am. I am third watch today."

"Thank you, Chekov. You play poker?"

"A bit, Ma'am."

"Why don't you meet up with me and Sulu one night for a game? In the palm-house."

Chekov smiled and gave an elegant bow. "I would like that, Ma'am. Thank you."

Once the young man left, Uhura unwrapped his gift. The Alpha figurehead was an imposing woman, portrayed in space-suited astronaut pose, pale with dark Slavic hair and eyebrows. Her eyes were kind, but her archaic hairstyle looked more like a helmet than the one she held beneath her arm. It was a lovely irony that, for once, Chekov's pronouncements about origin or provenance were true; the first woman in space _was_ Russian. Uhura placed her on the desktop and gasped when she revealed the second gift, rolled in soft blue tissue. A cobalt Russian doll, decorated in silver and gold, glowed in her hand and she untwisted it at the waist until she had eight dolls, the littlest no bigger than the end of her pinky finger. Their paint was so rich and deep it looked like glass, with the gilded decorations floating above the surface.

Her admiration was interrupted by the soft clang of the comm. Christine, in tears, and this time Uhura knew it was not laughter.

The nurse's hands twisted, bloodless. "Nyota, I've done something..." her sobs tore through Uhura's heart, causing the muscles in her face and body to stiffen "...horrible. Please come. I - I've called Mister Spock. Shit! I don't know what to do, I'm so stupid, it was an accident." Chapel's chin dropped and she waved a hand to halt the transmission.

The holo-screen remained for a second in front of Uhura; a dark gaping maw. There was a second of hesitation, then she was down the corridor; running, running, running, leaving her largest doll rolling on the desk, in two halves.

* * *

"I'm so stupid - shit!" Christine's head was in her hands, shaking from side-to-side in near madness. She was barely coherent. Rivulets of tears and snot met below her nose and she used her starched linen cuff to wipe them, uncaring.

"Christine, what happened?" Uhura took her friend's shoulders, trying to draw her out of herself, but the woman just cried, so that Uhura cried too.

Jolting, rib-kicking sobs consumed the nurse but she was finally able to blurt out her story.

"I said her name."

Uhura didn't at first understand, whose name? "Who...?"

"Orianna. I didn't expect it, I was reading her a book. I turned the page and the poem was 'The Ballad of Oriana', capital letters; the spelling was different. I looked it over, reading it out in my head,_ in my head_, in a millisecond. Shit!"

"It's not your fault. It was bound to happen sometime."

The nurse's next words fell like drops of blood.

_"She remembers."_

Wan pages, tissue-thin, fluttered in the ship's artificial climate, and the soft whisper caused by displaced air attracted Uhura's eye. A copy of Tennyson's Poetical Works, bound in faded olive linen, lay open on the examination table beside them, and she lifted it. It sat open at an engraving of a dark-haired woman, robed in white, lying in a boat with her hands palm-up in supplication. The caption:

She loosed the chain and down she lay; the broad stream bore her far away.

Spock and McCoy flew into Sick-deck. The doctor manoeuvred Christine onto a bio-bed, fast as a hare, calming her down enough so that she was able to tell her tale. She described images not her own being pushed into her mind. Scenes of being in an airy, bright room in bed, unable to move. A smaller room, this time windowless, with only her voice-activated computer for company. Losing her ability to speak, communicating using rudimentary telepathy with her computer, enough to allow her to watch holo-vids. Overwhelming joy at her favourite and best visitor, a tall, bald man with dark eyes for whom she waited every day.

Christine had felt such all-encompassing love for the man that she'd slid to the floor of the tank room and wept. Barely able to articulate her limbs, she had crawled on her hands and knees from the room, and sat against the door to close it, whereupon the grief subsided enough to bear.

Throughout the story, McCoy held her hand and rubbed her back in circles. "Where's M'Benga? He's supposed to be on duty with you."

"He went to the mess to bring us down some food. We've done that before, there aren't any patients. I'm so stupid. Stupid."

"Don't blame yourself, sweetheart. It could've been any one of us." He brushed hair back from Chapel's face and planted a lingering kiss on her forehead. Spock handed one of his many linen handkerchiefs to McCoy and opened his mouth to speak, only to be cut off by the doctor. "So help me Spock, if you say anything to criticise Christine I will knock you down."

"I was merely going to say I will attend Herald and ascertain the situation."

"Oh no you don't, Spock - we'll all go. If this is our doing, it's all our doing."

McCoy tried to leave Christine behind, but she protested with vociferous hand-signals, so they moved in a small caravan of the condemned, through the store and into the tank-room. There was no feeling of either sorrow or contentment as they approached. Nyota sensed nothing, and as they stood outside the submarine door, she let her breath stop as if listening for the whispered breaths of a sleeping baby, only to be engulfed in an infinite silence.

They stepped inside the room, Uhura forcing herself to look, willing everything to be all right. She viewed the bio-signs monitor on the wall behind the tank. Herald was alive. The group exhaled.

It was so long, a lifetime ago, since she heard the noise that she didn't immediately recognise it.

_Click_

Nyota looked around the room and saw nothing loose, no pipes or wires free.

_Click_

She looked at Spock. His head was tilted, listening.

_Click_

A second sound accompanied the first, merging them into one so that she had to screen one audio out from the other.

_Plip_

_Liquid_. She shouted in the hard echo of the room, "Get out! The tank's going to -"

The words were carried away in a silent roar; time slowed and she watched the Herald's tank turn opaque. Then they were all on the tiled deck, sliding in slippery bio-fluid and transparent aluminium shards that glittered in the low, fizzling aqua light. Bodies were righting themselves, jerking, turning, trying to put hands in areas of the floor without hard glassy gravel gouging them. Why did seconds seem an eternity? Fluid gurgled and sucked through the drain around the room in imitation of bathwater, although bearing with it life, not dirt. At last, Spock shouted "Ada, emergency lighting!" and the four found themselves deck-bound and blinking in shock.

– End Part 16 –


	18. Part 17: The armies of those I love

**Warning**: Scenes of a distressing nature.

Thank you to SpockLikesCats and TeaOli, wonderful betas. I twiddled and tweaked, mistakes are my own. ART for this story on my LJ, posting dated 06 March 2011, see profile for link.

* * *

**Part**** 17 – ****The ****Armies ****of**** Those ****I ****Love**

They were accident victims waiting for someone to take charge. A long second of silence passed then Chapel and McCoy sprang from the floor, shouting medical terms.

"Hypoxia in four point two minutes."

"Prime beta tank."

"Block primary blood-line."

As one organism, they faced the second tank. It, too, was smashed to smithereens, and Uhura, McCoy and Spock skidded to the floor in front of _Herald__'__s _tank where she had slithered, newly-born, through the bloodied, viscous mess of fluid and artificial capillaries. Nyota now saw that the glass was a magnifier. It was not an adult sized being, more a child; about four and a half feet tall. _Herald_ opened her mouth, ejecting bubbles.

"Don't try to talk, sweetheart, your lungs are full of fluid. Christine and I have about four minutes to get you on external de-oxygenation and aspirate your lungs." The doctor had his hand on one narrow ankle, stroking it. Nyota watched the violet colour fade, turning to a pale brown. The child looked more like Orianna now. Clearly, inside her head, Uhura heard a word:

_**No**__**.**_

M'Benga appeared at the door, appraised the scene and threw in a tricorder from the store, which Spock plucked from the air with the spare grace of a ball-player. McCoy took the machine and scanned Orianna. He looked up at Spock, biting his top lip, and shook his head in a tiny movement, his free hand rubbing her narrow shoulder. Spock removed his uniform jacket and spread it out, lining-side up. He and McCoy lifted Orianna onto the jacket. Christine sank to the floor and grasped one small hand. "I'm so sorry."

_The __armies __of __those __I __love __engirth __me__, __and __I __engirth __them__; __They __will __not __let __me __off __till __I __go __with __them__._

And that was it. The weak light of the bio-monitor faded away until the room was as still and calm as the surface of a lake on a windless day.

M'Benga sat on the store-room floor, his calves over the lip of the submarine door. Weeks later, Uhura would ask him what he saw, and he would reply that he witnessed a luminosity at the centre of the scene, but he couldn't properly explain it, and his scientific mind baulked at extrapolating the event. She didn't ask again.

At length, McCoy broke the silence, his voice cracking. "We should clean up in here, then hit the decon showers."

Spock nodded then lifted the small body, now wrapped in his jacket, with such reverence that Christine and McCoy looked away. Nyota watched him, ramrod straight, walk out of the tank-room carrying the frail military casualty, and wondered if young David Kirk ever tried on his father's clothes.

.

Dishevelled from sleep, Sanchez presented himself at Sick-deck as a volunteer and cleared the table of books, and his guitar. All the items were spattered with bio-fluid. Clutching sodden volumes, he whispered, "I can repair these, they should not be disposed of. We can each keep one for a memory."

Christine approached the Spaniard and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "That's a nice idea, Eduardo. We'll do that, thank you."

Time was taken to return the tank-room to a pristine state; M'Benga and Spock shovelled shattered transparent aluminium into plastic crates, destined for the disintegrator. Uhura took down the pictures and hosed the floor, and Sanchez wiped down his guitar, blotted the books, then dried them in the medical microwave to avert deterioration. Christine sterilised medical equipment which McCoy packed away in the store, before going to his office to place a private comm to the Captain's ready-room.

In the aftermath of a death, once the sick-room has been straightened, the body taken away and all traces removed, there is a moment where it is as though the deceased was never there. As they surveyed their work, the clean tank-room seemed forever unoccupied, the tanks always empty brass frames. Chapel and Uhura were last to go, and they left the room for the final time hand-in-hand. The nurse carried the pictures she'd made for Orianna under her arm, engaged a final autoclean cycle, and closed the heavy door over; a tombstone for an empty tomb.

On emerging into the bright lights of Sick-deck, Nyota saw that those in command whites were painted with the rusty hue of bio-fluid and blood. Spock sat on a chair in contemplation, in his customary steeple-fingered pose.

"Doctors McCoy and M'Benga are in decon. Sanchez is seeing to the... to Orianna."

His statement made the situation real once more, reinforced by McCoy, who appeared dressed in a sickbay robe. Their physical state necessitated an edgy level of intimacy, and Nyota felt an urge to cling to Spock. The doctor addressed his nurse in gentle tones. "Christine, will you take Orianna into the showers and wash her so we can put her to rest? Uhura, your uniform doesn't show the stains too badly. You can go," he hesitated "if you'd rather get cleaned up in your own quarters."

"Can I stay here for a bit?"

"You can do anything you want, doll."

"Did she do this to herself, Mister Spock?" Nyota asked.

The First Officer was contemplative, "I believe so, and the effort caused fatal cellular disruption."

Chapel rubbed her face and slipped behind the curtain where Sanchez was dealing with _Herald_. The abstract name was easier for Uhura to deal with so she forced herself to think of the body, for it was now a body, in those terms. Through the gauzy fabric, she viewed in silhouette the doctor's reluctance to give the corpse up, and her acute hearing heard him whisper; _Lo__ siento __mi __hermana __pequeña__, __adiós__._

When the tall nurse emerged with the small form wrapped in a sheet, her uniform stained and half of her hair fallen out of its pins, Uhura wished for a war-artist to capture the scene. McCoy's suggestion for Christine to wash the body was one born from years of experience. Perhaps this small ritual she could perform for _Herald_ would help Chapel to heal a little. Thinking herself surplus to requirements, Uhura announced her departure.

.

That night, Uhura slept alone, and awoke early to find that she was sorely in need of the electronic combat dummy, so she dressed and went to the gym.

"Ada, what is the strongest species setting on this simulant?"

"Strongest is a Klingon."

"Set simulant to Klingon physiology."

Uhura didn't want the dummy to expire repeatedly, necessitating a re-set. She needed to think. As she pummelled the pseudo-pirate, and analysed the events of the previous day, questions sparked through her brain, and there was no off-switch.

Did Orianna know who she was all along?

_Slam__! _The dummy rocked.

Perhaps Christine subconsciously _wanted _to say her name in the hope it would trigger her memory. No, it didn't make sense; that wasn't Christine.

_Slam__!_ Could they have done something to prevent it?

_Slam__! _Uhura danced on her toes.

_Slam__! _Were they all secretly relieved that Orianna was dead because they wouldn't have to worry about her being 'born'?

_Slam__! _ Were they right to keep the truth from Faran?

_Slam__! _ What would Starfleet do when they found out their experiment was a failure?

_Slam__! _Queries came thick and fast with her punches, until she grabbed the dummy around the waist and slid down to the floor, her knuckles throbbing and her upper back and shoulders aching.

By the time she dragged herself back to her cabin, all she could do was crawl into bed where she slept as though afflicted by a fever, until it was time for her watch to commence.

.

That evening, in the mess, she picked at her food, pushing it about the plate.

"Lass, ye're nae lookin' yersel' tonight." Scotty scooted in beside her, his dishes empty. He must have seen her as he was leaving. Uhura was overcome by the feeling you get when a loved friend asks if you are well, when you are patently not. If the steward who wiped tables in the mess had asked how she was, she would have answered 'fine,' but Scotty was a whole other kettle of fish.

She felt her face crumple, and before she could protest, a strong arm hauled her to her feet and frog-marched her from the room with such discreet efficiency that those who saw it imagined they were simply leaving arm-in-arm.

Now she was in Scotty and Charlene's quarters, on a buttoned brocade chaise, unable to recall the journey there. A shot-glass of something, shining with a radioactive glow, was pressed into her hand.

"What's this, Scotty?"

"Eh, dunno. It's _green_."

"Well, _green_ it is. Bottoms up!"

In situations like this, she thought a man the perfect companion. When he asked "d'ye want to talk about it?" and she said "no" that was the end of the analysis. A woman would have probably tried to wrangle it out of her. Instead, he taught her bawdy Aberdonian ballads until the _green_ was gone.

.

Uhura awoke in strange surroundings and put her leg over the edge of the bunk. Except there was no edge, and no bunk, just deck. A pallet-mattress on the floor was her bed, a field-blanket her cover. An odd sensation attacked the roof of her mouth and it took time for her to understand that her tongue was stuck to it. The need for water became secondary to the thought of moving her leaden limbs. As she was about to pull the blanket over her head in a vain hope this was a bad dream, a rustle signalled the crouch of a body beside her. A glass of water materialised by her ear.

"How's the head?" Charlene knelt down in full dress, her tails grazing her boot-heels, and stroked Uhura's hair. "I got a couple of McCoy's magic hypos for you and Mad-Dog-Montgomery there."

"Sorry, Charlene."

"What're you sorry for? I'm not asking, but it looks like you needed to cut loose. I found you and Scotty slumped together like a pair of bums on a Bronx bench."

"Thanks. I hope you don't think I was trying to..."

"Shut up. Sorry to bust your bubble, but he talks about you the same way he talks about his little sister."

.

Towards the end of an uncomfortable shift, where well-meaning, oblivious colleagues repeatedly asked if she was OK, Uhura was summoned by Spock to come to the Sick-deck. Her announcement of her destination was greeted by a chorus of 'about time' and she was almost manhandled from the computing area and pointed at the medical section.

On arrival, Sanchez ushered her into the office, where the First Officer sat at McCoy's desk with the other members of the conspiracy crowded around him as though he were a prophet. Christine was expressionless, McCoy stroking her arm, trying to will some life into her.

"Gentlemen, I have gathered you here to impart information I uncovered this morning. As you know, I constructed a covert query to run through Starfleet and civilian news feeds. This was in order to search for any hint of exposure of _Herald_, or any projects concerned with using telepathic or empathic beings for contact purposes. As the captain is fond of saying, 'forewarned is forearmed.' Today I received a report that Commander Faran, Orianna's father, was killed in a clipper accident at 11.07am, ship's time, two days ago.

"I did not believe the blame for _Herald's_ self-destruction lay with Nurse Chapel's fleeting thought of her original name, but I was not in possession of sufficient data to prove my hypothesis. I am now convinced Orianna became aware of her origin when her father died_. _Nurse Chapel's attendance around the time of Faran's death was merely an unfortunate co-incidence."

Colour returned to Christine's face, and McCoy slipped his hand into hers. Nobody spoke. Words of grief, regret, anger and horror were commonplace in their group; they were all used up.

Commander Spock cast out a brief, floating obituary: Faran had died on a rescue mission. Running out of oxygen and short of breathing apparatus, he gave his breather to a pregnant refugee, who survived.

"Poor bastard," said McCoy, "he was awfully brave."

"I don't think it was bravery," answered Sanchez. "Not so much, anyway. I think he did not care any longer."

Nyota's eyes were drawn to the final line of the death-notice:

_He __leaves __no __family__._

The words haunted her as the meeting broke up, rolling around and around in her head. A man died, perhaps because he had nobody to go home to. She imagined a story for Faran: a person consumed with work, having been left without a partner or daughter, throwing himself into every extra watch he could take, solitary, silent. Of course it was a fantasy. Perhaps he was balanced, and had come to terms with his situation, knowing for years that Orianna would die, preparing himself.

She knew the last supposition to be false. Nobody could prepare for that, no matter how far in advance they knew. Whatever the truth, only one person had the key, and he'd suffocated to death in a damaged craft. Whether the act of handing over his breathing apparatus to another was due to despair or bravery, was not theirs to judge.

.

Nyota ate a desultory few bites in the mess, accompanied by Spock. Neither spoke; they were at a stage in their relationship where words were no longer needed for communication. And when she put her fork down, with her stomach in a knot, he reached over the table and brushed her hand, unmindful of fellow diners who saw the action.

– **End ****Part**** 17 –**

**A****/****N****: **_Please_, dear readers, be aware of this story's genre. All may not be entirely as it seems. Two chapters, and more revelation, left.


	19. Part 18: Song to the siren

**Warning**: Discussion of loss of the unborn, scenes of a non-explicit sexual nature.

**Herald**** (****noun****)**** : **an officer with the status of ambassador acting as official messenger between leaders, especially in war. Merriam-Webster.

Thanks to wonderful beta, SpockLikesCats. I twiddle and fiddle, all errors my own.

* * *

**Part**** 18: ****Song**** to ****the ****Siren**

It was an intangible kind of grief, not the grief you would feel if someone you worked beside every day for years died, someone who you laughed with, commiserated with and got scared out of your wits on missions with. Alongside grief like that came memories, stories, and a funeral. Uhura had no personal frame of reference, but it seemed to her more a mourning for the unborn; grief for lost potential, for the person you would never know.

Each year on Orianna's 'birthday', would she wonder what would have happened if she was alive? She hoped so; she prayed none of them ever forgot.

Like expectant parents, they decorated the nursery that was now shut up in memoriam. And the worst (or best) of it was they all endured in secrecy, with only each other to comfort, or query, and only themselves to torture. What if they had done things differently? Did they over-stimulate her? Were memories unwittingly triggered by the stories they told and the music they played? Each member of their secretive little club danced around these questions. They were the participants in a fragile marriage who didn't want to expose cracks lest the entire edifice crumble about their ears, leaving them without their only shelter. If they could endure just a bit longer, they would come out the other side – wouldn't they? Each person screamed inside a rhetorical question that was also a sop to their guilt:

_What __could __we __have __done__?_

_

* * *

_

After Orianna's death, Spock did not come at night to Uhura's cabin, and sleep was elusive. The cold chill no longer invaded her bones but the child's absence in her head was an empty chair at the family table. She missed Spock's bulk in her small bunk, and the width of his shoulders that made her feel the most protected woman in the stars. What category of visits were they – medical visits? Comfort to a friend that he deemed no longer necessary? Comfort for himself?

They never again spoke about their strange ritual after she queried him in the night, weeks before. Their lack of acknowledgement after all this time rendered the subject almost impossible to broach. It had been going on for long enough, and was the subject of scuttlebutt, although since Uhura's 'assault', talk had died down – according to Charlene. Did the captain know his XO hadn't been sleeping in his own rooms? Hawkins certainly knew, nothing happened on the ship that he didn't know about. Twenty long nights passed for her without Spock, and on the twenty-first, she lay on her bed unclothed save for a thin white chemise, willing sleep to come.

Rising, she sailed; an opalescent nymph, and stood outside the first officer's door in turmoil. She hungered for his refuge, but her hand hung an inch from the door-plate, repelled by it, unable to endure yet another bewildering rejection. To her embarrassment, the door slid open, revealing his accommodations.

Almost silent, she whispered, "Mister Spock?" and crept towards the sleeping quarters.

Spock lay still and straight on the bunk, hands clasped on his breastbone with the index fingers extended and just touching his chin. He wore a colourless silk robe so fine that every muscle was delineated in sharp contour. The rooms were unlit save a shaft of feeble light from a brass lamp, illuminating his features in chiaroscuro relief and tinting him with phosphorescence. A marble medieval knight upon his tomb could not have been more beautifully rendered; only a heavy sword held along the length of him would have completed the picture of an exquisite monument. Seeing him in this sarcophagus pose enveloped her in a binding shroud.

"I prefer it dark." His words caused her to jump, as if they had been spoken by a corpse.

"She was in pain before we began to visit her in earnest. I felt it acutely and considered hacking in to her life support to end her torment. I could have done so undetected. I was torn and could not make a final decision. After all, she was a living being, and we Vulcans believe in the sanctity of life. Whose pain was I truly aiming to end? Hers or my own? A Vulcan can manage his own pain, but managing referred pain from another consciousness is exceedingly difficult. What have we become, Nyota? An organisation that would experiment obscenely on a defenceless child and betray her father in the most amoral way?

"I have never been less enamoured of my profession. My joining Starfleet almost cost my relationship with my own father, and I am as conflicted now as I have ever been about that choice. Have we become so lacking in compassion that we stoop to these levels? This abhorrent science cannot replace informed ambassadorial negotiations. Is it possible that Starfleet has become so morally bankrupt that those of us who live by an ethical code are outmoded and have outlived our usefulness? I am surprised to find myself drawn to follow in Sarek's footsteps as an ambassador. As long as I live I will fight to ensure this never happens again, even if I have to infiltrate every data bank in the Federation. I failed Orianna; I shall not fail one more."

Unclasping his hands, he arose and swung round so he sat on the edge of the bunk with stooped shoulders. "Will you assist me? I can think of no-one better qualified." Nyota nodded, dumb. Tears streamed down her face to drip off the end of her chin, down bare skin and into her chemise in a mercury trail. Spock indicated the bed beside his thigh and she swam the distance between them to sit by him. The heels of her hands went to her wet face and she pressed them trembling into her eye sockets, sniffing in an unladylike manner.

The bed shifted as Spock rose, only to return within seconds. Warm fingers encircled her wrists and prised her hands away with firm care. He used a fine handkerchief to pat her face and décolletage, causing her skin to goose-bump in sharp discomfort at her lack of underclothing. This sorrow was too heavy a burden. If she felt one-hundredth of the grief of Orianna's father, how had he gotten through his last days? She sat shaking her head and took the handkerchief to blow her nose. She now saw the fantasy they had constructed of Orianna's new life - with understanding, adoptive parents - as a deception fabricated for the purpose of self-preservation.

She stood, intending to leave, but Spock caught her hand and, in silence, held her delicate bones like a bird's. He released her hand flat onto his and stroked her palm and fingers with such a feather touch that she closed her eyes, leaned forward and breathed a sea-shell sigh against his hair. Warmth poured from him and infused her whole being until she drifted in his sparkling wake. Large hands spanned her thighs, caressing silken skin and pushing up the white cotton until she lifted her arms and allowed him to pull her only garment over her head.

His long, dexterous fingers moved to the tie on his robe and he released it, moving the fabric aside to allow its liquid folds to slip away and pool onto the bed. Between his knees she faced him, taking in his sleek lines and soft covering of hair. He guided her down to straddle one leg, his hand stroking her face and shoulder with lidded eyes as if she were covered in the most exquisite velvet. After an age, his hand moved down to brush her breast and he kissed her deeply, devastating invasions that caused her to moan and rock down hard on his rough iron limb until they fell back on the bed, washed up among the sandy fabric of his robe.

She sank beneath his ocean and and drowned in him; a glorious, salty immersion. He was in her hair, her nostrils, between her fingers and toes; infiltrating her lungs with every breath. His skin moved on every part of her until she was no longer aware of the boundaries of her own flesh. She pressed herself into him until she wore him as her own skin. When she sank too deep he pulled her back to the surface as she gasped and cried for him, and he returned her breath with his kiss. A siren, she lured him by her song. His name, called from her mouth, bore them crashing to the rocks on a roaring wave. At last, stilled by the tumult of the fight, he rolled onto his back; shattered and with heaving breaths. Caught spent and damp on the warm dry stone of his chest, Nyota kept him fast within her.

Risen from a brief but heavy sleep, she elevated her chin to look on the beautiful angles of his jaw. Pale hands traced down, mapping her draped landscape until her knees rose and cradled the hard perimeter of his form in instinct.

"Let me feel you move on me." Up until that moment, words were brief, snatched away and curtailed in the swell. The reverberation of his deep, low rumble giving that first coherent instruction was enough to cause an instinctive reaction, and she rocked above him in slow concentration. With closed eyes and parted mouth she pulled him on her languid tide 'till he broke with a whispered groan; rising from the bed in a taut, shallow arch. One strong hand clamped her thigh to further force his rush within her, and the other beckoned with graceful fingers where they joined, until she sang his name once more, its sibilant notes repeating until they spilled from her lips like silver.

.

He used his fine robe to draw his brine from her body in a tender compress – all the while kissing and stroking her face in reverence – and then to scrub himself. They lay entwined and he played with her hair, stretching her curls and watching them spring back in scientific wonder. Nyota had no doubt that his brain was instinctively calculating the forces exerted on a spring using Hooke's law. "I trust this action will not earn me a fractured ulna?"

Smiling, she shook her head in the negative. "You're the only one allowed to do this though."

"If he had injured you further, I would have had him walk the plank."

"Are you making a joke, Commander?"

"I believe so."

"I was scared of you when I got to this ship. You seemed under such duress – and angry."

"Anger is a shameful state for a Vulcan; however in this case I believe it was justified. My failing was not to act upon it sooner. As Hooke's Law states..."

Nyota completed the phrase, " 'The strain is directly in proportion to the stress.' She's not completely gone, Spock, I feel her. It's a faded, fluttering sort of a presence but I do feel something."

Spock sighed and took one of Nyota's hands to his lips, speaking through her fingers. "I also feel it, but the reason why is unknown." He became earnest. "I wanted to come to you, but I had no wish to appear disrespectful. I had no desire to shut you out. Before, when Orianna was alive I was... overwhelmed, emotionally. I found I could only sleep whilst in your company, but to take things further, under the circumstances, seemed self-serving. I was required to have all my mental faculties at Orianna's disposal, should something have gone wrong."

She took his face in her hands and nodded. "It's all right. Perhaps now we'll get a decent night's sleep. You look like you haven't slept all these weeks."

"Affirmative. We have, all of us, shared an horrific and distressing experience, and yet we live to see another day."

"She forced us all to love each other." Nyota realised too late what a trite aphorism she had uttered, and worse, that she had used the word _love_ in the presence of Spock.

"Despite your holo-vid poster sentiment, I believe that to be somewhat true."

"Can you read my mind?"

"Negative; I have tailored our bond so that I can only sense physical sensations such as pain, adrenaline-rush and, of course, itching."

"Can you feel it when I... oh my GOD!" Her hands flew to cover her face. "Sometimes when I was alone in my cabin I thought of you and..." The rest was a mortified mumble into her cupped palms.

"Affirmative; I felt it. On fourteen separate occasions. The first was during the captain's briefing and it was necessary for me to manufacture a sneeze. It caused an absolute sensation as no crewman had ever heard a Vulcan sneeze before. Doctor McCoy wished to perform a medical examination on my nasal passages; he was even more insufferable than normal. The capacity of humans to keep a joke going for so long over such a trivial matter is bewildering to me."

"You _counted_?" Nyota spoke into his chest in humiliation.

"I found it rather amusing. I could hardly ask you to cease and desist."

"So it doesn't cause you to..."

"Under the correct conditions, it is..._stimulating_." He drew the syllables out in a rough drawl, and Nyota's hips rolled against him in involuntary response. "Those conditions do not, thankfully, include sitting in the captain's ready-room surrounded by shipmates."

Giggles overtook her. "Sorry."

"I believe you will have less need of such comfort now. I am also gratified to know I was in your thoughts at the time."

"It was always you, Spock."

"I trust it will always be so."

* * *

Morning came accompanied by a voice message from Hawkins; a breakfast tray for two was outside the cabin. "Honestly, I think that boy _is_ yours Spock - he's telepathic - either that, or omnipotent." Naturally, Spock was confused.

Over breakfast, they discussed the traumatic events of three weeks ago, and the liminal presence they both still felt. Spock reached across the table and took her hand.

"I no longer think of Orianna as the herald. I believe the herald was you, Nyota. You were delivered to us in most unusual circumstances, triggering a chain of events that led to our understanding of Orianna's plight, and her eventual freedom. Had I not continued to visit you in the tank-room, I may not have sensed the trace of a Vulcan presence in her mind."

"That Vulcan, do you think he left you a deliberate message? Orianna transmitted something about him being at war with himself."

Tracing his cheek-bone with an index-finger, Spock murmured almost to the table, "_He __knows __the __baseness __in __his __blood__, __at __such __strange__ war __with __something __good__. _Perhaps it was a message - perhaps he wished us to discover the outrage. That would be the kind explanation. The unkind explanation would be that his telepathic skills are not as well-developed as he imagines."

"I'm glad Christine wasn't to blame. She looks like a different person now - those awful circles below her eyes are gone - and she seems happier, even her face is a bit fuller."

"Indeed, of all of us, there has been a most marked improvement in Nurse Chapel."

"And you, Spock."

"And myself."

When Spock went off to shower, Nyota crept down to her cabin; they had agreed to meet on the climbing wall. A surprise to her, but she accepted gladly, pleased to be doing something she felt sure about.

.

When she reached the wall, Spock was already almost at the top, climbing with skill. It was typical of him to be performing with excellence an action he deemed 'illogical'. Uhura tied herself in and asked Ada to take her to the top to join him. On rising to his level, she was greeted by a wonderful surprise.

"You shaved off your sideburns."

Spock almost smiled, "Indeed, Orianna intimated she found them unbecoming. I have done so to honour her."

Uhura reached out her hand to touch his face. She stroked the smooth cheek of this gentle man, and to her surprise, he took her face in his hands and kissed her. It was a dry kiss, more of a brush to her mouth, but her stomach flipped. He pulled away an inch and spoke quietly. "I wish to express my gratitude for your patience, and your unquestioning support. You are a woman of rare integrity, intelligence and unstinting loyalty."

A shuffling commotion below snapped their gaze down. "Uhura.. oh! Commander, I didnae see you there, um, sorry." Scotty wriggled in discomfort while barrelling to a windmill stop immediately below them, his voice carrying in the hangar deck's echo. "I've got a message for ye's."

"And yet you found it impossible to alert us through the comm system?" Spock raised an imperious eyebrow.

"Aye - I mean no. Och! I got a wee bit carried away, Mister Spock." Scotty calmed his breath and turned grave, as though imparting news of a death. With a child's logic, Nyota thought if she put her fingers in her ears, whatever the Scotsman had to say could not be true.

"Uhura, lass, the worm-hole's opened up again."

- End Part 18 -

**A/N:** Apologies for my last note, I did not mean to imply Uhura is not genuinely in this universe, she is, and it is real. I'll stop leaving these damned notes! One chapter left.


	20. Epilogue: This most intricate universe

Thank you to SpockLikesCats, my patient beta. And to all my wonderful readers and reviewers, thank you all for taking the time to look at this tale, and comment. More thanks at end.

**Word**** of ****the ****day****:** Stone frigate; Royal Navy nickname for a land-based training ship.

* * *

**Epilogue**** – ****The**** Wanderings ****of ****This ****Most ****Intricate ****Universe ****Teach ****Me ****the ****Nothingness ****of**** Things**

**One**** Week ****later**** – ****The**** Sentinel**

A funeral service is held for a fine Starfleet lieutenant who is unknown to those aboard the ship, so the turnout is small, but heartfelt. Scotty plays "MacCrimmon's Lament" on his pipes, and Commander Spock reads words given to him by the only person in the universe who knew the deceased.

The captain himself reads Tennyson, and the closing paragraphs of _A__ Tale __of __Two __Cities_, culminating in the final words of the ceremony:

_"__It __is __a __far__, __far __better __thing __that __I __do__, __than __I __have __ever __done__; _

_it __is __a__ far__, __far __better __rest __that __I __go __to__, __than __I __have __ever __known__." _

Spock knows these last words are not in memoriam of Kyle. Within the casket, he is dressed in an _Alpha_ uniform, the empty sleeve pinned across his chest with Nelsonian precision, but tucked beneath his good arm is a small body, its clandestine inclusion known only to a select few. She will be protected in death, as she was not in life.

In silence, an honour guard stands to attention and the coffin slides into an airlock, whereupon it is propelled to a nearby inhospitable planet. It burns up in the atmosphere, a magnificent, life-affirming firework.

**Two ****weeks ****later**** – ****The ****Scientist**

Hard boot-heels ring along the length of an endless, empty corridor. A hand presses against a door-plate, a retinal scan is performed and a slim, black-bearded Vulcan sweeps into a small laboratory. With his dark robes billowing behind, he is a hellish galleon in full sail.

Using spindly silver tongs, he lifts fragile tissue samples from tanks and drowns them in acid, before returning them to their bio-fluid.

To perform his final act of sabotage, he lounges at a hide-topped mahogany desk, tall boots crossed on the leather, and calls up an innocuous sub-routine on the computer, one usually reserved for bug-tracking. Files, like dominoes, cascade into the abyss.

His own erasure from Starfleet's history is no matter; he has saved his employer the trouble.

**Five ****months ****later**** – ****The ****Sailor**

Rear Admiral James Tiberius Kirk sits in his well-appointed office in San Francisco, witnessing the most extraordinary tape he has ever seen. It came to him wrapped in a scarred, five-inch-thick titanium tube, engraved with his name, and bearing a beautiful counterfeit of a Starfleet distress signal. A ship on patrol plucked it from the aftermath of an ion storm and, after deeming it safe, delivered it to the rightful recipient. Along with a tape addressed to him are tapes marked for the attention of others, a battered but authentic tricorder from the _Enterprise_, and an operations staff uniform patch which comes bundled with the tape, marked _Lt__. __Kyle __partner __and __family__._

Laughing, and wiping tears, he flips his comm switch and gets through to his friends, who today are participating (he imagines) in a faux grudge-match whilst working together in one of the Starfleet medical labs.

"Jim?" It's McCoy.

"Bones, you and Spock had better get over here - I've had a delivery you won't believe."

On his screen, he watches a familiar, tall male figure extend two long fingers to his communications officer, in a Vulcan public kiss.

"And I can't wait to see your face when Spock sees it."

**Three**** years ****later**** – ****The ****Surgeon**

Up in the hills outside San Francisco, nestles a cosy house with a shady front porch and a lush garden full of buddleia. Today is an uncharacteristic seventy-four degrees. In an effort to escape being roped into making fiddly snacks (which his surgeon's hands are rather good at) Leonard McCoy sits on the porch swing in a linen suit, cradling a mint julep; the very cliché of a southern gent. With _Alpha _in dry dock for a partial re-fit, some of the crew who chose to go on the next five-year mission are coming around, along with those who now work here on dry land. McCoy himself has worked at Starfleet medical for the last two years (a somewhat lowered position in the cadet clinic – his choice – in avoidance of those responsible for the events of three years back).

He has to hand it to Spock - the hobgoblin made an immaculate job of erasing Orianna, and her tormentors' work, from the record. The Vulcan Neuroscientist even mysteriously disappeared, leaving behind tanks of dead tissue that were uncatalogued, and unidentifiable.

They have, all of them, ripped asunder the seams of their old lives and made a new coat. None more so than Uhura, who melted Spock's icy heart, and found a place despite being a stranger in a strange land. The Doctor is tickled by the thought that only a woman from another universe could move the Vulcan soul.

And what of the good doctor? The evidence of his new life can be heard drifting through the open door.

"Dad, are you hiding out there?" Joanna steps onto the porch, bearing a clinking jug full of mint, bourbon, sugar and lemonade.

"What are you and Christine jawing about in there?"

"Some cadet we had in yesterday, his hand was _hanging __by __a __thread__._" She has inherited her father's glee for gore.

"Oh, very nice."

Joanna squints about the garden, her eyebrows lowered. "Where's Annie?"

"She went down to the gate to look for Spock. I think she's gonna explode with excitement."

His daughter raises her eyebrow in a manner that reminds Bones so much of himself that he smiles, "Yup, not much change from normal then."

"Um, Dad, do you think she can get over the gate now?"

"No, it's taller than me. No way. She's not even three feet high." But he puts his glass under the swing and ambles up to look for the person who Scotty refers to as 'the wee mental'. As his eye level rises and he is able to see down the slope of the garden, Joanna asks, "Is that Spock?"

"If it is, he's wearing a damned funny hat. What _is_ that on his head? It looks like a..."

"Two and a half-year old child?" offers Joanna. Father and daughter number one both burst out laughing.

In the event, it is not Spock, but Eala; McCoy forgets how much the boy has filled out. He is casually dressed in an olive cotton shirt, open at the neck, black britches and boots. God, he's been living too long with women, if he's noticing men's clothes. Under one arm is a case of Guinness, which Joanna relieves him of.

"She climbed ya, huh?" McCoy regards his tiny daughter who is wrapped around Eala's head bonnet-fashion, her hands clasped below his chin. As his jaw is somewhat restricted, the boy merely nods.

"Yup, she does that. You're honoured. She won't do it to everyone. Scotty endures it too." Prising stocky limbs apart, he manages to release the clamp about his ex-colleague's head.

"I tried to pick her up." Eala's hair is down loose, curling at the ends, and now in comic disarray.

"Oh-ho, you didn't? She hates that, don't you sweetheart? Did she bite ya?"

"What? No!"

"Dad!" Joanna smacks her father on the arm. "He's joking."

Daughter number two rolls her navy eyes to the sky, McCoy fashion, then examines Eala. "You new!"

"Eh, what did I know?"

Annie regards the Irish lad with furrowed brow, appraising him as though he is a very dim bulb, a very dim bulb indeed. Thick dark curls bob side-to-side. "Not know, new. New here."

"Oh yes, I've not met you before. Annie, I'm Eala."

Extending a pudgy hand the little girl says with solemnity, "Pleasda meecha."

Eala shakes with serious reverence. "I'm honoured to be your guest Miss."

And with that, she's off running round the garden in a blur. "Jaysus, look at her go, it's like she's been stung by a wasp."

Joanna laughs, rather loudly, patting her hair in a primping gesture so at odds to her normal, independent demeanour that her father coughs to disguise his own laughter.

"Yeah, we don't know how Dad and Christine produced her, but she is theirs, improbable as it looks."

"She's tiny, isn't she, but she weighs a fecking ton."

Smiling, big sister explains; "She was six weeks early; Dad says she couldn't wait to get out and start talking. She's always been small, but she's as strong as a horse."

"I know, I've got a great lump above my ear where she used it as a toe-hold."

Folks drift into the garden carrying food and drinks, the usual suspects, including the close-knit group who spent long hours in the _Alpha_ tank-room. To McCoy it seems a lifetime ago, but also like yesterday. As melodramatic as that sounds to him, it's the truth.

Spock is now an instructing captain on _Ganges_, a stone frigate, and Uhura works for Starfleet Intelligence. Eala is learning to be a navigator, and Kirk says he's a damned good one. It sure beats smashing windows in Cork. Kirk is with his only love, _Alpha_, and M'Benga is CMO now, with Sanchez deputising. McCoy hears there is a vacancy for a nurse; the way Joanna is simpering at Hawkins, he thinks she may apply. It's no life for a twenty-five year old, living with her old dad.

Warm arms slip around his waist. "Whatcha drinking? Rum or whiskey?"

Bones looks at his beautiful partner, her dark waves falling about bare shoulders and answers, "Won't y'have a double with me?"

"I will, and then let's go and talk to Uncle Jim, and David."

.

"Look at her, she's got Spock wrapped around her little finger. What do you think they're doing?" Jim Kirk points at Annie, who sits cross-legged in front of the Vulcan, wearing the confused expression Uhura calls _accessing __data__ banks__. _Nyota is relaxed, sitting back on her hands. The silvery glint of an intricate starfish sparkles on the skin of her arm, and purple flowers hide in her hair in haphazard style, probably placed there by the child.

"Advanced math?" her mother suggests.

"Annie can do advanced math?" David Kirk's brow furrows. His blonde curls are golden in the sunshine.

Christine laughs, throwing her head back with a snort. "No, she's two and a half! But she listens to anything Spock says, even if she hasn't a clue. It's the only time she stays still, haven't you noticed?"

"You should keep him as a house-guest." Kirk the elder winks at his son.

"I wish."

McCoy lifts his bourbon, smiling ruefully. "Well I don't."

When the sun sets over the bay, Joanna illuminates strings of starry lights, and McCoy lifts Annie, a tired dead-weight. Meaning to get her to say a sleepy goodnight to M'Benga and Sanchez, he accidentally blunders into an odd scene behind a screen of willow, slowing in the dusk when he hears the name of his crazy little girl. M'Benga kneels by a lounge chair, his voice concerned:

"What's wrong, Eduardo? You are like a ghost."

"Annie asked me about my guitar."

"So, you will bring it another time."

"How does she know? I have never played it for her."

"You've had too much beer my friend, her father or mother probably said you play."

"I thought that too but..."

"Come on, let's go and talk to the others."

"...she asked after Carmel, my sister."

"What sister? You never mention her."

"She died in a hover-scooter accident when I was thirteen years of age. I speak about her rarely. She was the cause of my sorrow, three years ago, when I had to... to go away."

With his nose buried in Annie's twig-entangled curls, McCoy steps back from the scene. His daughter is fast asleep, her breath a quiet snuffle into his neck. He smooths down her rumpled violet dress.

It's her favourite colour.

– _The_ _End_** – **

* * *

_The __Herald_

_Limited__ Copyright__, __Spockchick__ 2011. __Please __do __not __reproduce __or __distribute __without __the __author__'__s __permission__._

_The __characters __of __The__ Herald__/__Orianna__, __Eala__/__Hawkins__, __and__ Annie __Chapel__-__McCoy __are __copyright __Spockchick__._

Enduring thanks for help I can never repay, to the following (strictly alphabetical order). Hopefuladdict, Ladyfangs, Linstock, PrinceHamlette, SpockLikesCats, TeaOli. And all the folks at STCC and Writers Anonymous. And, most importantly, _you_ who have patiently read this tale, and given your time, and kind comments.

Thank you

Spockchick


End file.
